Make Me a Hero
by samsationalization
Summary: "You must be crazier than I am to think that I'm still a hero after all the blood I've shed." A broken princess from a doomed world receives a second lease on life as a hero to save another world from suffering a similar fate. But when having to choose between returning to her world versus her newfound purpose, where will her loyalties lie?
1. Chapter 1: New Tidings

**(A/N): This is an original story that I wrote originally on the FireEmblemHeroes subreddit that I am crossposting over here. Please enjoy.**

* * *

An eruption of dust, a pillar of cloud, a blinding light, Marth found herself in a daze and an unfamiliar place as she stumbled off of an altar-like pedestal that still hummed with otherworldly magic. Had the goddess Naga sent her to this realm or was this some cruel divine jape that she was torn from her world of such destruction and madness and thrust unto one that felt so… calming?

"Hello there!"

A friendly voice broke the silence, a sound our masked warrior was so very unfamiliar with, and Marth unsheathed her sword out of pure instinct, holding it before her, its silver blade shimmering brilliantly in the radiant sunlight of this world.

"Ah please! I come as a friend!"

Marth eyed the petite young woman that now meekly stood before her. From her body language, Marth could tell that the girl had meant what she said, as she was visibly unsuited for combat, wearing an outfit akin to that of cleric's from her homeworld and holding a staff that was indeed meant for healing rather than hurting. And, as if to show off the gentle demeanor of the girl, a snowy owl was perched snuggly on her shoulders with an inquisitive look in its eyes.

Marth retired her sword back into its scabbard and readjusted her mask as she faced the young cleric with a less threatening front. "My apologies. I was just taken aback by how… friendly you were."

"Oh! Hee hee," the orange-haired girl giggled. "I'm glad I came off that way. I was working on how to approach and meet new people and Kiran suggested that I greet newcomers—"

"Kiran?" Marth asked, slightly tilting her head.

"Yes, Kiran. He's our army's tactician and summoner."

"Summoner?" Marth's was not sure she had heard right. It could explain how she ended up in this dream-like world but surely such magic could not exist, could it? This day was just one mystery after another. "Did I hear you say that correctly? A summoner you say?"

"Oh dear me!" The girl exclaimed as she shook her head side-to-side, drumming her knuckles on her temples, her puffy hair swatting the owl that rested on her shoulders much to its chagrin. "Where are my manners? I am getting way ahead of myself here."

The girl cleared her throat. "My name is Genny, I'm just one of the army's many healers and the acting guide to fresh recruits, such as yourself, that have been just summoned by our tactician. I welcome you to Askr!" The girl, Genny, did a little courteous bow before Marth, the owl on her shoulder nearly falling off.

"I… was summoned here? But what about…" Marth trailed off. Feeling a sharp stiffness in her body all of a sudden, she slightly raised her gloved hand towards herself. Then, an intense surge of pain rippled through her body, powerful enough to nearly bring her stumbling down to her knees. She felt as if she were going to hit the floor any second…

If it wasn't for a certain cleric that caught her in time.

"My goodness!" Genny squeaked, supporting the masked warrior's body with her own tiny frame. The owl hooted loudly too, as if to voice its own concern. "Are you alright…? Uh…"

"Marth." The swordswoman said through gritted teeth with her arm now resting over Genny's tiny shoulders. "You… may… call me Marth…"

Genny led Marth slowly out of the summoning grounds, arm over shoulder. "Marth you say? Hmm, I was sure that…" She became quiet. "Ah, perhaps now isn't the best time for that. We need to get you some help first."

"But…"

Genny gave the masked warrior a reassuring smile. "We'll talk later. My priority right now is that you don't collapse. So please bear with me for just a little while."

Marth nodded silently and before she knew it, her vision slowly faded to black.

* * *

"Have you begun to settle in?"

Marth, startled yet again, quickly glanced over her blanketed shoulder only to be met with Genny yet again. She was holding a tray with what appeared to be a hot drink as she slowly approached the swordswoman that sat solemnly by the blazing fireplace. Finding comfort that her guide had returned, Marth returned her gaze to the roaring flames, gloved hands clasped together.

Genny sat across from her, handing the warm tea and setting the tray down on the small table before the fireplace. "Normally we would have the maid serve you but unless you're like mister Bartre the Brave or… that one dreamy knight… —oop! Sorry for trailing off!—you'd end up back in the infirmary, hee hee!"

Marth blew softly into the warm cup before her before falling into a sudden silence. Genny eyed her curiously, seeing that the drink was untouched. "Is something wrong Marth?"

"Everyone here is so… kind…" Marth muttered softly. "Is this how the world was like before…"

"Marth are you alright?"

She raised her face from the cup and tried her best at giving a reassuring look to the caring cleric. With such an obstructing mask, it was quite the task but seeing Genny's relieved expression told her that it worked somehow.

"Did everyone help you out alright?" Genny asked, her finger engaged in a battle with her fleecy locks. "Any of them try anything… strange?"

Marth shook her head. "No, they were as kind as they could be. I didn't expect to be hoisted up so easily and carried to my room… I would have walked up myself but this pain… I have not experienced such aching since… well, nevermind that… A brown-haired mercenary fellow said that he would help me but this burly armored man already had me in his arms as he effortlessly carried me here before the brown-haired fellow could say another word. Not to mention that soft-spoken priestess that tended to my pain… How could I have gotten so weak?"

Genny laughed softly. "Don't worry about that, you'll grow familiar with the aches soon enough once you start training in the Great Tower. Besides, you aren't the only hero who has nearly collapsed after being called here. Even the mightiest of heroes needed time before they were accustomed to their bodies again."

"I wouldn't say I'm used to it just yet…" Then Marth looked at her strangely. "Wait, did you say heroes?"

Genny nodded. "That's right. Heroes. The kingdom of Askr is full of them, many from all around, and all summoned, just like you."

"Me, a hero, after what happened to Ylisse?" Marth said, scoffing as she set down the glass cup on the tabletop, her gaze returning to the fire. "Ridiculous."

"You bear the name of the Hero-King, do you not Lucina?"

Marth's eyes went wide open, of course, Genny couldn't see the shock on her face. Her hand instinctively went to her mask, her fingers gingerly rubbing the cold metal exterior. "How do you know that?"

"Know what?"

Marth gestured to her mask, the mask that hid her true identity. Another mystery. How did she figure it out? Come to think of it, Genny did say something strange at the summoning grounds as well.

Genny sighed as she leaned slowly back into the seat. She stayed silent for a while, only the crackling of the fire and the occasional whistling of the wind breaking the quiet atmosphere.

"You should know something about me." Genny said, straightening herself up in her seat. "I love stories but I love to write them even more. In order to find inspiration, I spent a great deal of time in the Askrian royal library and while there I came across the histories and tales of the worlds many of the heroes with us hail from. So, when I wasn't on duty healing or being fielded on the battlefield, you would find me there, head stuck in book after book."

Marth nodded.

"Then, I came across a certain tale. A tale about the tragic end of a faraway kingdom engrossed in what seemed like an eternal conflict, between the living and the dead."

Marth felt shivers run down her spine.

"A princess and her 11 companions rise from the ashes of the world in an effort to banish the forces of evil for good."

All this sounded so familiar to Marth but strangely her memory was hazy. Even the most basic details, like the name of her compatriots, eluded her. Was her mind always this scattered? It could not have been more than a day since she was brought to this world, was she losing grasp of her old world already?

"Yet their combined strength was not enough to quell the darkness."

Marth fell silent.

"And so…" Now Genny fell silent, a pained expression shooting across her face. She closed her eyes, waiting for it to pass.

"What then?"

Genny quietly stood up from her seat and picked up the tray that rested on the tabletop. "I… I think some things are better off being unknown Marth."

Marth nearly jumped off of her seat but her aching body disagreed with her every step of the way. Bearing the pain, she stood as upright as she could and faced the healer. "You can't just leave it that! You can't spring on me that you know all about me and my secret, recite my own life, and not tell me what it amounts to!"

"Marth, please. Calm down for a moment." Genny pleaded. "You're only going to make it harder on yourself."

Marth bit her lip. Inside, she knew Genny was right but it pained her, far more than the physical pain she felt now, to be left in the dark about her own life and being called to an unknown world for seemingly no reason. Strangely, the more she tried to recall her own world, the more distant it seemed, every fact and memory eluding her like a beast trying to chase its own shadow. And she knew that Genny was at no fault in this. She sighed and sunk back into her chair.

Genny sat down too, the tray resting on her lap now as she sat. "If you'd like any insight, I suggest you take a look at your sword."

Marth raised her head and turned to her side. Someone had the courtesy to unfasten her sword whilst she rested so her belt laid bare. Turning around once more, Marth could barely make out the dark outline of it as it leaned against her bedside. With light footsteps, Marth approached the blade. With shaky hands, she picked up the blade and scabbard which felt unfamiliar and heavy in her weakened state. She walked back to the fire.

"I brought my sword. What is it that you want me to accomplish here?"

Genny motioned for Marth to take a closer look with her hands.

Heeding her instructions, Marth raised the sword to inspect it closely in the fire's light.

She felt her heart sink to her boots.

The blade was slender piece of silver that was even in width throughout. It had a finely smithed cross-guard with slightly flaired ends at the head of the grip with blue wrappings encasing the grip and a pointed pommel. This rather expensive looking piece of work was not her sword.

"Wh-what is this?" Marth whispered, muttering her thoughts aloud. "Where's Falchion?"

"That was the sword you arrived here with and the very sword you raised against me earlier today."

Marth looked at her, mask and all, but Genny could tell the bewildered look on the girl's face behind the mask.

"How can this be?" Marth said, as if pleading. "What's become of Falchion?"

"I know you have a lot of questions milady but we do not have all the answers you may be looking for."

An unfamiliar voice called from across the room. Marth slowly raised her head from the foreign blade and looked on to see who had answered her. A young man about a head taller than either of them stood by the doorway. He donned dark blue hair, similar to her, was cloaked in white-and-gold armor, and carried an aura of gentleness yet authority.

"Oh, Prince Alfonse!" Genny exclaimed, quickly getting up to bow to prince of Askr. "I hadn't noticed you come in!" Marth attempted to do the same but her legs refused to move. Was it the shock or the gut-wrenching feeling she had deep inside?

"Please, you don't have to be so formal around me Genny." Alfonse said, motioning with his hand for her to stand back upright. "I know I'm not as laid-back as Sharena but you don't have to treat me like an etiquette instructor."

"My apologies, I—" Genny stammered.

"Come on now." The blue-haired prince said, laughing softly as he gently rested his hand on her shoulder. "You don't need to be like that around me lest you drive yourself over the edge." Genny returned the prince's assuring laughter with a smile of her own. Then, Alfonse turned his attention to Marth.

"My apologies for not being there to greet you upon your arrival milady." The prince apologized, bowing his head. "I was preoccupied with our war efforts and was not able to make it down to the summoning grounds myself. But Genny here, as our resident historian, has already told me all about you and from what I've heard so far, it seems Genny had been right in regards to who you are."

Marth looked up at Alfonse. "Were you listening in on our conversation?"

"A thousand apologies milady." Alfonse said, bowing once more, each motion as graceful as the other. "I felt that it wasn't my place in making my presence known whilst you needed time to yourself. It will not happen again."

"Please, don't apologize." Marth said, shaking her head. "You are the prince of this realm and you bear the responsibility of your kingdom on your shoulders. I know that feeling all too well."

Alfonse nodded in earnest. "I am glad we have mutual ground to stand upon milady, it is both my honor and privilege. And for as to what to call you…?"

"Marth will do just fine." Marth said in response.

"Of course." Alfonse nodded. He fell quiet for a moment before raising his voice again. "For the heroes that arrive here, many are often as lost and in a daze as you may be feeling right now. But your memoires will return, trust me milady."

"Will I ever be able to return back to my world?"

Alfonse nodded. "Rest assured, your are not our prisoner here. You are free to stay or leave as you wish."

Marth, consumed by thought, did not open her mouth again.

"Prince Alfonse, if I may be so bold, it is indeed rather getting late." A silver-haired servant with long hair chimed as he popped his head in from the doorway "We better return to our quarters and prepare for the next day. Kiran has asked to meet you in the war room promptly at dawn on the morrow to discuss a new strategy against the Emblian forces."

"Sounds good Jakob." The prince replied. He turned around to the masked woman before him. "If you will now excuse me milady. I must be on my way."

"Good night prince Alfonse." Marth said.

"Likewise, Marth."

The prince quietly left the room, softly shutting the door behind. The room was filled with nothing but the sounds of the now dying fire, as it crackled and popped, desperately trying to stay alit. Marth had turned away from the fire's embrace and now faced the rising moon in the night sky.

Genny picked up the tray she had set on the seat and reached over Marth's side to pick up the now-cold drink that was left untouched throughout the whole evening.

"Genny." Marth called, her voice quiet yet solemn.

"Yes Marth?" Genny asked, setting the glass back onto the tray.

Marth turned around to face her. "You said you read upon the histories of the world of the heroes that have come to Askr, right?"

Genny nodded in earnest.

"Have you read about yourself?"

Genny was quiet for a moment before nodding again.

"What is your story?" Marth asked.

Genny smiled gently. "I'm just a mere cleric from the priory of Novis that had the privilege of fighting alongside a fabled princess. Nothing too grand, I'm no warrior."

Marth sat up. "Surely you must have at least seen how it ends, right?"

Genny nodded. "The fabled hero-king and queen save the land and peace is restored."

Marth was quiet before asking, "What about you?"

"What do you mean?"

"What happens to you at the end?"

Now it was Genny's turn to be quiet. Marth had noticed that while talking, Genny had not let go of the glass she had supposedly set on the tray. Even from where she stood, Marth could see the white's of her knuckles beneath her fair skin. "What happens to me you ask?"

Marth nodded.

"I didn't get to see the end of the tale my own two eyes."

"Why not?"

Genny smiled sadly at Marth; Marth thought she saw tears welling at the corners of the young girl's eyes.

"Because I died."

* * *

 **(A/N): Thanks for reading my first attempt at a Fire Emblem Heroes fanfiction. As sparse as the actual game is, I believe that it holds a lot of potential for storywriting, so here I am. Stay tuned for more updates. Thanks again.**


	2. Chapter 2: From the Ashes

**(A/N): Oof, here's the next chapter of the series. I had a blast writing it and I hope it meets your standards. And now, without further ado, here's what you came for.**

 **Potential spoilers ahead, read at your own discretion.**

* * *

"That's… quite the stack of books you've got there Genny."

The cleric gave a disarming smile. "If you're going to stay with us, might as well read up on some history to avoid looking ignorant, yes?"

Marth had not expected her day to start off like this, least of all with Genny, of all people, and her sudden intrusion for that matter. It had been several days since their last conversation and Marth had grown worried that she may have perhaps prodded too much into Genny's private matters. Were her worries for naught, she thought otherwise. Their conversation from several days prior still echoed in her mind.

Because I died.

The very words sent icy daggers into Marth's heart. Telling a stranger one's life was one thing but to say that they had instead died was a completely different beast. How could anyone divulge such information so openly and still try to smile on? How could someone keep moving forward after coming across such a realization? These questions raced around in Marth's mind but she dared not to bring them up lest she hurt Genny.

But Genny showed no signs of spite nor woundedness. She was back in the same bubbly and kind-hearted manner she had when they had first met on summoning grounds. This was days after their initial conversation of course. Marth had felt rather guilty for digging at Genny that she in fact wanted to apologize to her.

She did not get her chance in the meantime.

Marth had asked around if anyone had seen the young cleric only to be met with the same answer.

"Genny? She's been tasked onto the battlefield."

As peaceful as this realm seemed, war had ravaged the world, just like Marth's own. Wounded soldiers lined the sick bay, officers raced to and from the barracks like ants, carrying what could only be assumed as intel and resources dedicated to the war effort. It seemed conflict was an inevitable end that followed her wherever she went. From what she had been able to deduce so far from several off-duty officers in the dining quarters were that two kingdoms, the one she was in and another, had been locked in conflict for quite some time on and off again. Seeing as how drawn and unyielding the fighting was, Marth had started to worry about the young cleric's wellbeing, especially after having been sent off from such a conversation.

While wandering the training grounds at night, an armored knight, the same man that had carried her up to infirmary, saw the listless way she carried about amidst her worries and had asked her what was troubling her.

"I… I think I may have wronged someone."

The man, whom she learned was in fact one of the army's celebrated generals, took her to the empty mess hall for a quiet drink and a chance to talk, something Marth was not very adept at doing. She stumbled many times in her conversation in getting her point across but the man was patient and listened intently, paying close attention to Marth's words and refilling her glass with warm lily-berry tea every time she downed the glass. It was quite the ordeal on Marth's end, as she had to tiptoe around the real meaning behind her worries.

Because I died.

How could Marth ever repeat those words with a straight face?

By the end of her confession, the man downed a glass of his own, with what Marth could only assume was something much harder and heavier than what she was drinking. Even so, she could see that the man showed no signs of being inebriated and had been listening to her intently.

"So, who is this person?" The knight finally asked, setting his glass down and meeting Marth's distant gaze.

Marth was hesitant but decided that she owed the man at least that much for even bothering to listen to her; it seemed everyone here was willing to lend a hand or and ear to help their fellow peers.

"Her name is Genny, the cleric with the orange hair." Marth said, a slight shake in her voice.

Then suddenly, the man burst into laughter. Marth had thought she may have made a mistake with her delivery but the knight's next response confirmed her suspicions wrong.

"The girl looks quite soft, huh?" The knight said, in such a soft tone that made his previous outburst seem like an illusion. "And I don't mean her hair. Lass looks like she wouldn't be able to hurt an insect to save her life and even the tiniest gust would break her. That's what you think, right?"

Marth hesitated for a moment. What the man had just said was an unfiltered river of thoughts and was perhaps even insulting to Genny but Marth knew in her heart that the man's words were in fact her own, deep-seated judgments as well. She slowly nodded.

The knight wiped his upper lip with a gloved thumb, his heavy-set armor ringing about the empty room with every movement. "She may look as frail as a lamb but she has the heart of a lion."

Marth sat on her stool quietly, setting down her empty glass.

"The girl is stronger than she looks." The general said. "Stronger than I could ever hope to be. Even after the death of Eliwood I—"

The man fell silent. Marth could see the distant forlorn on the general's face in spite of the man's ever-present grin. He chuckled to himself, a hint of sorrow hidden between his air-rippling laughter. "She has been here almost as long as Kiran himself and has borne witness to things you and I can't fathom nor handle. And yet, here she stands, taller than most could, ever ready to lend a hand to all."

The man took another swig at his glass. "That's the life of a cleric. Giving up a part of themselves so that others won't have to."

The general, whom she learned was named Hector, left after that. He had invited Marth for a sparring match to wipe away the rather gloomy atmosphere but she politely declined the knight's kind offer. His last words threw Marth into deep thought that she could focus on nothing else.

Could that have been why Genny, in spite of how reluctant she looked, told Marth how her story ended? To spare her from finding out her ultimate fate by giving up her own so willingly? Was it mercy that led her to do that? The simple goodness of her heart? Marth had so many questions that went on unanswered.

Until now.

* * *

"Marth, I'm not intruding, am I?"

Marth was brought back from her lengthy reverie by a soft voice tinged with worry. Turning to her right, she saw that Genny had set her stack of books on the small table in her quarters and was looking at her, her eyes beckoning for an answer but her body worrying what that answer might be.

Marth shook her head and put on her most reassuring smile, an act once bound by muscle memory that had been forgotten since long ages past. "No, you're not. As a matter of fact, I wanted to speak with you."

Genny's face beamed and her eyes lit up, the previous anxiety that strangled her melting away. She almost seemed to jump with joy akin to that of a child receiving a heartfelt gift on her nameday celebration. "Y-you wanted to speak with me? Ohh… What is this feeling?"

Marth, closing the door behind her, then stood upright as tall as she could before bowing her head with such force that Genny was forced to take a step back.

"M-Marth? What's wr—"

"Please forgive me, my impertinence!" Marth proclaimed, her voice like a gale of wind and her posture unyielding. "I have trod unwittingly on a sensitive matter that I had no right in setting foot upon. Please find it in your heart to forgive me!"

The room was filled with an uncomfortable silence. No one spoke or moved a muscle. While bent over, Marth could feel cold sweat pool at her forehead. Had she ruined it all in the end? Was Genny purposefully acting the way she was in an effort to forget their last conversation and had Marth unwittingly brought up the subject again? Marth began to curse herself for acting without thinking yet again.

But a warm, gentle hand came to rest on her shoulder, an action that would had Marth at any other time jump right back onto her feet. Instead, it thawed the cold uneasiness that had flooded her body, dissipating any second thoughts from her mind. A equally tender laughter then broke the suffocating silence. The hand then slowly raised Marth up from her once unbending stance and met her a calming gaze.

"Silly Marth." Genny said, setting aside her mirth. "Why must you insist on beating yourself up over something so small?"

"But I—" Marth begun to protest.

Genny simply shook her head with an untroubled air. "While uncomfortable, it was only fair for me to do so. I found out about your story, you had every right to hear mine as well."

Marth was at a loss for a response. Hector's words from several nights before echoed in her mind.

"So, please." Genny smiled, patting Marth's shoulder. "Don't worry about it anymore."

"But you and I are total strangers." Marth whispered, turning her head to the side, unable to return the cleric's sentiment. "How you can be so…" Marth could not find the words to finish her sentence but Genny seemed to understand.

"That may be true." Genny agreed. "We've only known each other for several hours at most. Not even the friendliest of sellswords would tell their life stories within that time… But Marth?"

She looked back at the young woman.

"I pray that one day you can call me your friend." Genny said softly, smiling. "And tell me your story in your own words."

Marth stood there, taken aback by the cleric's words.

"In exchange, I'll forgive you of your self-proclaimed 'impertinence'." Genny replied, tilting her head. "Do we have a deal?"

Marth opened her mouth to respond but no words touched her lips. All she could do was nod meekly, but to Genny's delight.

"It doesn't have to be today, or tomorrow." The young healer said, taking her hand off of Marth's shoulder. "Only when you yourself are ready. When the time comes, I will listen, okay?"

"O-okay." Marth answered, finally finding her voice. "When the time comes, I will. I promise."

And that was enough for the young cleric. She beamed with such bliss that the previously awkward atmosphere seemed like a lie. She skipped back to where she left the books on table, flipping open a tremendously heavy-looking volume like plucking a leaf off of a twig.

"Now," Genny exclaimed with such fervor, her body seemed to shake. "Are you ready for your history lesson?"

Marth let out a cathartic laugh and began to walk to the empty seat by her.

Until there was a sharp rapping at the door.

Marth, as if her body were moving on its own, swiftly changed course and reached for the door's handle instead of the chair's neck. She opened the wooden partition before the knocking had even ended.

In front of her stood a bloodied and battered rogue, his brown hair matted down on the sides and caked with blood. It appeared as if it were his own.

"Marth!" The rogue cried, his voice urgent and firm despite his injuries. "You're safe. Thank the Gods. Have you seen Genny?"

Marth nodded, motioning with her hand towards the healer standing behind her who had begun to pace towards the injured man.

"Thank goodness." The man exclaimed, relief flooding his strained words.

Genny reached the man and began to examine his wounds without a word as she looked up to face him. "Wh-what happened Matthew? Why are you—?"

The man quickly brushed her away with his blood-soaked hand. "Emblian invasion. A sizeable division has attacked our station here. The attack caught us off-guard. Even the boys and I didn't see 'em comin'." He spat a wad of blood onto the wooden floor. "Lord Hector has ordered all able-bodied heroes to assist in the defense. That means you too Marth."

Marth felt her heart race, just as it always did in the event of a battle. She nodded without saying a word.

"I know you've only been here for a several days but we're all out of options right now. The nearest band of reinforcements are horse's yard out and we need every hand that can wield a sword." Matthew said, almost apologetically. "We cannot let the Order fall here today."

"What are we waiting for then?" Genny barked, a tone that Marth had never expected from her. "People need our help!"

Genny quickly turned to face Marth before heading out the door. "Sorry Marth, looks like we'll need to postpone our lesson." She turned to the rogue. "Let's go Matthew."

Matthew nodded in earnest before turning to face Marth one last time. "Arm yourself with what you need and meet Lord Hector at the front. He's gathered whatever heroes that could still fight with him and personally leading the fight back to the invaders. Help him at all cost!" Matthew then scooped up Genny in his arms in spite of his injuries and bound down the hall with blistering speed. Marth blinked and both the man and Genny had all but disappeared.

Marth ran back into her quarters, grabbed the foreign blade and fastened it around her waist. It may not be the sword she was used to but she would make do with what she had. Checking the blade one last time, she ran out of the room, her legs running as fast as they could take her to her allies.

* * *

"URAH! One hell of an awakening, isn't it?!"

General Hector swung his fabled weapon Armads with such ease, it seemed to weigh as much as a bird's feather in his hands. Marth, while feeling that she had seen such prowess before, was in awe of the sheer power behind the man. He cleaved down foes left and right in his bloody whirlwind of death.

Marth parried an oncoming attack with her sword with such swiftness that it seemed the two blades had not even met, let alone touched. Swinging the sword back to counter-attack, because the blade, while sharp and beautiful, felt foreign in her hands, Marth only managed to hit her adversary with the side of her blade. Still, the man was hit was such force he laid limp on the grassy battlefield.

Marth looked up to see a sea of enemies still marching their assault on their brigade.

"I see an opening!" the red-haired boy roared, his sword blazing with a whirl of fire. He threw himself fearlessly unto the enemy.

"Just as we calculated," the archer said with an air of superiority as he unleashed a barrage of arrows into the bodies of any who dared oppose them. "Keep pushing!"

"Keep them coming!" The raven-haired man cackled with laughter, a strange madness enveloping him. Marth noticed his crimson, blood-stained sword for the first time. "I… cannot resist the urge! RAHAHAHA!" The man's movements were so fast, Marth could not keep track of him with the naked eye.

While General Hector and his monstrous axe cut down wave after wave, his stalwart comrades, a raven-haired swordmaster with a penchant for bloodshed, a dashing archer with golden locks and hawk-like aim, and a hot-blooded, red-haired youth wielding a flaming sword, cut down their foes with equal measure. Marth, while fighting alongside them, could only stare in awe at their skill. Was this power of a hero? Was this what it meant? She could only keep guessing.

Flames erupted, arrows flew by, and a merciless laughter echoed throughout the battlefield. It was a feeling Marth was already familiar with. A sensation that almost felt… natural. And before she knew, where once dozens after dozens of enemies once stood was now consumed in a sea of fire.

"Hold formation!" Hector bellowed, as he and his men held their ground. "Jeorge, do you see any more of them?"

The flames from the young boy's sword made the surrounding area catch on fire but the burning seemed to be controlled. It did not get in the way of the strike force nor did it endanger them when it should have. Still, the smoke from the flames clouded the area and hazed everyone's vision.

The golden-haired archer shook his head. "I cannot see anything beyond the flames but the enemy has stopped advancing."

Hector looked over to the frenzied swordmaster who still carried his look of crazed glee. "He's right." The man whispered, his voice gone soft. "I do not feel their fighting spirits any longer."

The boy extinguished the flames of his blade. "Nothing we couldn't handle, right Uncle Hector?"

The general nodded as he firmly slapped the boy on the back. "Your father would be proud Roy."

"I wouldn't go for anything less." Roy said, his voice solemn.

Marth sheathed her sword, the blade easily sliding back into its sheath, given how clean it still remained after the battle. She stepped out towards the field of fire. With every step, the growing flames receded from her, as if it knew not to touch her.

The battle had been won. But why was she filled with such a feeling of uneasiness?

Then, the ground began to shake and the wind began to howl. The flames that were once tame began to rekindle themselves and climb higher into the sky. Marth, unsteady, fell to her knees. As she struggled to raise herself back onto her knees, she was met with an ear-deafening shriek.

And with its wicked fangs, the cry clawed out from the deepest recesses of Marth's memory when the fell demon had dived right—

Marth's legs froze, her arms hung limply by her side. She tried forcing her lifeless limbs to move but with every attempt, they simply hung there like a puppet with cut strings. She screamed at her arms to pick herself up, she screamed at her legs to run, Marth screamed at herself to move, but no sound came.

Just emptiness.

With all her strength, she raised her head for one last time only to be met with a storm of oncoming riders, by wind and earth, and so many that they and the smoke hid the sun.

It had felt as if time had stopped.

Marth could not move nor could she hear. The perpetual cries of her allies in that moment would never reach her. Her arms would not pick her frozen body up. Her legs would not run away from the onslaught that awaited her. She could only see the fate that awaited her with every drawing breath.

"…"

"Move out of the way or get run over girl."

A cold hand came to rest on her shoulder briefly as those words broke through to her ears. And as Marth turned to face the speaker of those words, they were already gone. And where the oncoming cavalry and fliers should have been never arrived. Looking up, she saw a blurry figure, smothered in flames and brandishing a flaming lance breaking through her would-be killers.

With his flowing sea-green hair, tattered and burning cape, and spinning wheel of fire, the man almost looked… beautiful. His bloody dance of death, while gruesome, flew with grace and allure that carried an air of beauty, painting a terrifyingly frightening work of art. His lance was his brush, his adversaries his ink, and the battlefield his canvas. The blood that flowed from the earth and skies, the murderous intent behind each strike of the lance, the maddeningly beautiful movements of the lone warrior, Marth was captivated by his bloody requiem. She was no longer frozen just fear, she was also frozen with awe.

Wave after wave of what appeared to be a waterfall of foes, the man never faltered or stumbled. His five-pointed lance's heads met their target every time and none managed to set a step past him. Dismembered limbs flew by like petals and blood flowed like an unending river of crimson but the man did not yield. His dance was not yet over.

After what seemed like an eternity, the fatal piece ended and the fire had been snuffed away, like the lives of all those unfortunate enough to dare stand in the man's path. The flames that once engulfed the man's spear whisped away. The embers that stuck his cape and armor still flickered, glistening the blood that coated him and his weapon. He swiftly turned and marched away from the battlefield. Marth tried to meet the man's eyes but they eluded her own.

The man was at the point of passing over her. She could not fully understand why but she wanted—no, she needed—to get his attention.

"You saved me." She tried to cry out, but it only came out like a whisper. Out of her peripheral view, she could see the outlines of her allies rushing towards her but her attention lied elsewhere.

As quiet as her voice was, the man must have heard her as he stopped in his tracks.

Marth grunted as she tried to pull herself up as much as she could to get a better view of the lone man. "Who are you?" she asked, her quiet voice cracking. "You're another one of these heroes, aren't you?"

The man briefly turned his head over his shoulder before looking away. He remained still.

"After all I've done…" The man said finally, his voice like silk, a stark contrast from his jagged appearance. "Me, a hero… Haah, what a funny world."

Marth felt her vision darkening but she had so much more left to ask. Why was he body giving up on her when she needed it most?

Using the last of her strength, Marth forced out, "How am I supposed to thank you without knowing who you are?"

Out of the corners of his face, Marth could barely make out that the man was… smiling?

"I go by what people like calling me. But I'll give you the most popular one."

He paused. It felt like an eternity to Marth.

"I am called Lord Ephraim, the scourge of Renais."

Marth's world turned dark, her vision and hearing failing her.

But not before she heard one last phrase.

"Sister-killer."

* * *

 **(Author's Note): Oh boy, that was a blast to write. I hope you enjoyed it as much as I did writing it. It went through multiple revisions and drafts before I found a version I thought would flow well. Hopefully it'll stay that way. Thanks for reading, stay tuned for more.**

 **Cheers.**


	3. Chapter 3: Duty

**Author's Note: Hi again! Here's what you've been waiting for! Please enjoy.**

* * *

"How are things Matthew?"

The spy corps captain was caught off guard by the sudden voice that called out to him. He had been concealing himself in the foliage of the arching tree, maintaining a watchful presence over the surrounding area. If one were to see him now, they would see nothing but scattered branches and leaves but a careful eye would be able make out the moon's faint shimmer glinting off of two hawk-like eyes that hid themselves amidst the darkness. Peering over the overgrowth, he searched for the source of the voice, upholding his vigil. How could have anyone been able to find him so easily, he did not know, but once he found the person who had called out to him, the answer was obvious.

Matthew leapt silently from his hiding place and landed softly on his feet, sleek and nimble like a panther on the hunt for prey. Sweeping his red over cloak to the side, he bent his knee and bowed his head.

"Lord Hector."

The armored general gave an affirmative nod in response as the rogue rose from his greeting. The man's normally carefree demeanor was overshadowed by the serious look he bore on his face. While still dark, Matthew could make out the subtle creases that formed over his former master's face, an unusual sight for a man who never wavered in front of most.

Except maybe before his wife.

The spying trade brought with it quite a bit of surprises and secrets.

Of course, Matthew would never divulge such critical information to anyone at the cost of his liege. It would be a secret he would take to the grave. Disappointing yes, but he was a man of his word and promises. He would never go back on them. Besides, if a certain twin-tailed cleric managed a whiff of such juicy gossip, the entire camp—no, the entire kingdom—would be in for quite the uproar. Vows meant everything to the spy. The last time he failed to make one, it nearly broke him.

Never again.

"How are things Matthew?" Hector asked, voice hoarse. Upon closer inspection, Matthew could see the heavy bags that had begun to form beneath the man's eyes. It seemed the general found no rest, despite it being days since the battle. He decided that he would keep his answers short, for his master's, and friend's, sake.

"Not good." The spy said, removing the stalk of straw he had been chewing on with a bandaged hand. "While our stronghold here managed to fend off the attack with little losses, other battalions were not so lucky."

The general nodded, his movements small but Matthew's eye was able to see the deeper reasons beyond such simple gestures. Hector had already anticipated what he was going to say in response and was visibly beating himself up over what had happened. Matthew knew that he was taking the losses quite harshly. The general used to pride himself on suffering not a single casualty on the battlefield under his command back in their old world but since his promotion here as the commander of the Order's 1st Infantry Division and 4th Armor Battalion, he was in for a rude awakening.

The man, as much of a war machine as he was, could only be on one battlefield at a time. As much as he would have like to be with all his soldiers at once, there was only so much Hector, the Ostian general, could do.

"Your troops will die." Matthew recalled the blue-haired prince reprimanding the knight. "It is an undesirable result but a harsh reality we must come to terms with. Men and women alike will fall on the battlefield no matter how hard we try. But it's up to leaders like you and I bring as many as we can back, back to their homes, back to their families. Back to their lives."

The general had no response of course.

The prince said one more thing before he left back for the front that day.

"Accept what you cannot do. Only then can you see all that you can."

The words must have resonated with the knight. While quite a lot of other generals and strategists hanged back behind the frontlines to carry out their tasks, Hector took it upon himself to lead his troops to battle, fighting and bleeding alongside every man in his battalion until the battle was to be won. Many called him foolish and brash, subjecting himself only to a fool's errand. One general was worth entire companies of troops they protested. He was not worth losing just to save another soldier in his brigade. But Hector would have none of it. At every battle, it would not take a master marksman to find a blue-armored behemoth that cleaved his way through enemy lines if it meant safe passage for his troops.

And numbers and statistics only strengthened Hector's stance. Even Prince and Princess Sharena's own numbers paled in comparison to the general's. Commander Anna was, to nobody's surprise, shocked as well. Units under his direct command suffered the least number of casualties of any other squadron in the Order's army. Hector was making sure of that by placing himself in harm's way for the sake of his troops.

Until now, that is.

"While you were leading the forward strike force," Matthew added, tossing the straw to the ground before stamping it out. "The 4th Armored Battalion was tasked with the defense of the Front Gate."

The Front Gate was a magnificent arch that lead towards the capital of Askr, hand-sculpted from every brick and piece that lined its giant figure. It was also a mural, lined with busts and figures of heroes and legends from long ages past. Even though they gave their lives to ensure that peace and prosperity would find their home their mounted visates only bore further witness to countless deaths and bloodshed. The Front Gate was also the first line of defense that was in line towards the capital. As such, it was normally the area that was hit the hardest by the invaders and was usually stationed with the most battle-ready battalion that would be able to fight and react at a moment's notice. Of any invading conflict, the most lives would be lost here.

"What news do they bring?" Hector immediately asked, his eyes, and perchance his soul, begging for any semblance of good news. "Has Amelia written back to us yet? Draug?"

Matthew did not like what was coming next but he knew Hector would like the cold, crushing truth, rather than a sweet-laced fabrication.

"They've been entirely wiped out. All seventy-five armored soldiers, down to the last knight."

Hector said nothing as he turned away from the spy. Even now, he refused to openly show weakness. Matthew knew better than to stare at the man so he gave the knight some space. It would be a devastating blow to the man. Hector knew the name and face of every solider in that battalion. After all, he led them singlehandedly against countless odds and prevailed together time and time again. Now, they were gone, snuffed out like a procession of candles in a storm.

"Does the Gate still stand with Askr?" The general asked, still unable to face the spy.

Matthew nodded. "Yes. The Order will not fall, not this day. And it is thanks to the sacrifice of every man and woman in the battalion who all willingly laid down their lives so that those who could not protect themselves could keep theirs."

Hector stood silently, nothing in his body giving away his thoughts.

"They all fought for you. Your will inspired them to keep fighting down to the last knight. And it will live on in their de—"

"How did it happen?"

Matthew was startled. He had not expected Hector to suddenly insert himself after being quiet for so long.

"How did…" Hector began, his voice unfaltering. "How did they die?"

Matthew was quiet for a moment. He needed a moment to collect his thoughts and organize the intel he dug up.

"The Emblian forces have been changing their strategy lately." Matthew said, abandoning his previously heartfelt persona. There would be time for grieving later. Now, it was back to business, a place where one could not afford to be emotional. "Their previous strategies of using shock cavalry proved to be ineffective against the armored knights that held the forward vanguard for many of our secondary squads. Mounted riders, no matter how many, could not break through the entrenched armored line the guarded each unit. And when trying to break through defensive positions, Emblian riders suffered heavy casualties. Physical weaponry was rendered useless against the knights' heavy armor and despite the riders' constant barrage of charges, the knights would lock shields a repel every charge again and again.""

"So what was different this time?"

Matthew brushed the right corner of his lip with a thumb. "The Emblian army still used their shock cavalry to stage their attack on the Front Gate. But that was only a front. They began using mage riders."

Hector turned around, his face grim. "Mage riders?"

Matthew nodded. "My sources claim that Embla has appointed a new lead tactician to manage their shock cavalry brigade. They say his skill in magic on horseback is unmatched by any and, while he was not present at this battle, fights alongside his chosen other riders, decimating all those who stand before him. His victories date back to our losses back in the Gates of Archanaea and it seems his constant victories rewarded him with a promotion."

"I remember him." Hector muttered under his breath. "A terrifying lighting mage. The few soldiers that survived their encounters with him say the Emblians praise him as Thunder's Fist."

"This 'Thunder's Fist' and his mage cavalry brigade were behind the attack at the Front Gate." Matthew added. "I'm sure you knew where the rest of the shock riders were to attack."

Hector nodded. "We saw them on the field back here. While it wasn't their full force, they were quite formidable. It seems that this tactician bolstered their training by miles."

Matthew tilted his head in confusion towards the general. "You 'saw?'" He shook his head. "I'm sorry, you didn't face them head on?"

"There was no need." Hector replied, pausing. "HE was there."

Matthew stopped in his verbal tracks, his eyes gone wide. "The rumors were true. I didn't believe it at first. The Scourge really has returned. I thought he was gone for good this time after his confrontation with the leaders of the Order."

An unavoidable silence seeped in. The Scourge was a sore topic to the many soldiers of the Order but also one that was not to be carelessly tossed around like rubbish, in spite of their personal reservations. The infamous spearman was the only hero among the many that populated Askr that was not summoned in by their tactician Kiran. In fact, he wandered into the capital, slipping past the Front Gate's sentries and the capital guard, in his tattered cape and armor and that fearsome lance of his. Soldiers took turns often guessing how he ended up in the land of Zenith. Some say he is a vengeful spirit that transcended into a physical body. Others say that, given his original appearance, he was a wanderer, drifting from place to place until he found himself in Askr. Whatever the reason, people to this day, even Kiran himself, regard the Scourge as an enigma, a mystery with no answer.

It also did not help that the Scourge had an incredibly tainted track record once recognized by historians. Sharena told Matthew that Genny was the first one to find out the identity of the mysterious hero. Once known and praised as the Restoration Lord of the distant land of Magvel, he was now reduced to the Scourge of Renais, a nomadic berserker of a man that was directly responsible for the death of his beloved twin sister who was greatly revered in life and death. While Matthew spent barely any time in the Askrian library, he picked up enough scattered pieces of information to find out that the damned man basically killed his sister with the very lance he wielded since his first day here.

In spite of the reputation he carried, he gave himself up to the Order without any resistance. Given his told and untold strength, he probably could have leveled the entire capital on his own but he didn't. He was locked up for a while in the holding cells before the leaders of the Order decided what to do with him.

The Scourge was a man of great strength and endurance, his stories and abilities were a testament of that but he was also feared, feared in a way no hero should be. While a great asset, he also posed as a liability to the other lesser troops in the army that might be unfortunate enough to cross him. Yet they couldn't simply execute him or exile him for who he was, the man while a monster from his world has committed no crimes towards Askr and her people. He did have the chance to fight back but he did not.

So, many leaders of the Order suggested that they were to hire him and have him fight for them on one condition however. By their suggestion, the Scourge was to be placed in a unit that held only one member: himself. And that unit, unceremoniously dubbed the Spear's Head, was to be sent on impossible and suicidal missions against their enemies. It was killing two birds with one stone. If the Scourge died, the Order would rid itself of this "non-hero" but if the Scourge succeeded, it would be a victory for Askr. Thus, the lone wanderer was permitted to fight for their side.

Alfonse, Kiran, and even Hector, despite what they knew about the man from reports, were adamantly against this sort of treatment, saying that if he were to be enlisted in their ranks as a hero, he was to be treated with the proper respect of one; he wasn't to be treated as the Order's lapdog. Their protests went unheard But the Scourge didn't seem to mind at all. He would be assigned a mission and simply return after it was over, despite the dangers. And none dared to approach him, even when he was resting in his lone barrack. Even Matthew advised himself not to snoop on the lancer for his own sake.

"I never doubted in the man's skill." Hector said, recalling the battle. "But I have never seen such… terrifying power."

Matthew could see the genuine look of shock on Hector's face. In the long, long time he knew the young lord, Matthew knew it took quite a lot to shake the man behind the armor. If he found something to be terrifying, then it was a force truly to be reckoned with. The Scourge sure lived up to his reputation.

"I heard that one of your men in the strike force was injured," Matthew said, changing the subject. "Was it the new recruit?"

Hector nodded. "He hasn't even said his Vows yet but yes Marth was our only casualty. Poor lad fought hard with us but was almost run down by the riders before being saved by—"

"You're saying the Scourge rescued Marth?" Today was just a day full of surprises after another. "Why would he do something like that? Why would he risk his own hide to save the life of some new recruit?"

Hector shrugged. "The man's still a mystery like always. After the battle, we didn't even get a chance to ask. He just vanished. Even Jeorge couldn't see where he had gone."

Perhaps Matthew should get friendlier with the lancer, he could always use more tricks up his nonexistent sleeves. A thought for another day perhaps.

"Is he okay? Marth?" Matthew finally added.

Hector nodded once more. "Genny thankfully was available amidst the mess and is on duty, keeping a close eye. He's in good hands."

The spy master grew silent. "If only I hadn't made our healers spread out so thinly on the field. Perhaps the knights that held the Gate may still be with us here now." He muttered quietly.

"They fulfilled their duty till the end." Hector said, picking up Matthew's quiet musings. "Let's not ponder on what-ifs or what could have been." Matthew knew that it took a force of iron will for a man like Hector to accept the deaths of his soldiers, someone so unwilling to take a casualty. It was a sign that he was coming to terms with what had happened.

Matthew sighed, part of him relieved at his former liege's slow return but the other half worried for what was to come. If they were to lose further soldiers in this dire time, it would spell trouble for the already weakened Askr. With the 4th Armored Division gone and the other units in poor shape, another invasion would be the end of the Order. If Askr wanted to win this war, they would have to use everything at their disposal and right now, they were at the end of their rope. If Askr hesitated, it would signal a sign of weakness to their adversaries. Another attack would be mounted and Askr Matthew knew Hector was aware of this fact as well. When the general opened his mouth after a period of long silence, Matthew knew what was coming. He knew his former master and friend well.

But he would not let that blood stain Hector's hands.

"My lord." Matthew said, suddenly kneeling before the general, much to his own surprise. "If you would allow me a selfish request."

Hector was confused by this sudden act. "What is the meaning of this Matthew?"

"You weren't the only one to lose men during this battle." Matthew started to say. "Several men of my own, good men, lost their lives in the fight and I wish to avenge them."

"What are you talking about Matthew?"

"Permit me to take whatever men I have left in my division that are willing to follow me on what I'm about to do."

Hector did not say a word. Matthew knew that Hector already figured out what he was about to do. All he needed was his permission in order to bear the weight on his shoulders. Matthew could see the conflict on Hector's face. He would have wanted this more than anyone. But why was he hesitating? Seeing as there was no reason to hold off any longer Matthew took a steady breath, he knew this was his chance.

His last chance.

"Let me avenge our fallen brothers and sisters here and I vow to you"

"…"

"I will bring us the head of whom they call Thunder's Fist."

* * *

 **(A/N): A bit slow yes? Don't worry, the next chapter will a lot faster in terms of pacing. I just don't want to rush things. Thanks again for reading. Stay tuned for more!**

 **Cheers.**


	4. Chapter 4: Slumber's Embrace

**Potential spoilers ahead. Read at your own discretion.**

* * *

Marth jolted from beneath the covers, her breathing ragged and hair matted down by the sweat that had pooled on her cot. With shaky arms, she tore herself from the tight grasp of her bed and out into the drafty expanse of the empty intensive care tent. She fell down almost immediately, her feeble legs unable to support her despite her best efforts. Her recovering body was met with a rude greeting as it hit the floor with a resounding thud. Marth desperately tried to get up from her pitiful position but it seemed all her strength was resorted elsewhere. Her heart was pounding, and so painfully so, that Marth felt as if it would burst clear through her tightly bound chest. With an unsteady hand, she put it against her pounding chest in an effort to still her thrashing heart.

She was better off saving her already diminished strength.

Arms still weak, Marth made no further effort in picking herself up. Body on the floor, her mind laid elsewhere, distant. It was still racing after, or perhaps running away from, the dreaded nightmare that tore her from solitude and rest.

It was the pitch of night.

She was standing in the darkness, alone.

An empty field stood before her, its weeds sprawling towards the empty vastness of the sky. They were more akin to clawed hands, reaching, climbing, searching for salvation beyond where they were bound.

She was alone.

Then, in blinding flash of light, the field erupted into flames, its vast sea of blades disappearing beneath the ravenous hunger of the unquenchable fire.

There was nowhere to run.

The flames surrounded her, cutting off all paths to salvation. Even if a patch of unburned grass remained it would do no good.

Her body refused to move.

Her arms were holding what she could only imagine was a sword and they hung limply before her, the blade being swallowed by rising flames. Her legs felt like lead, entrenched in the fiery field that was to be her grave. The thick smoke that hung in the air was like a hangman's noose. It was strangling her, torching her insides and clawing its way into her chest and lungs like a ravenous beast. She wanted to claw at neck, to free her from its vise-like grasp, but her arms stayed put, being licked by the climbing fire.

"You abandoned us."

Amidst the hell before her, she could hear a thundering voice lash at her, its tone angry but sorrowful. She wanted tried to turn her head to see where it was coming from but her neck stayed fastened to her shoulders, not budging in the slightest.

"You left us to die."

She wanted to answer back, to tell the voices that they were wrong. She would never leave anyone behind to die. There was no way she could have done such a thing.

Could she?

But no matter how many times she opened her mouth, no sound escaped from her parched throat. No matter how hard she tore at vocal chords, nothing came of it.

Just more silence.

"It tore us apart, piece by piece, until all that remained was nothing."

The flames had completely enveloped her now. There was not a single part of her body that was not caught ablaze. She felt her skin begin to peel away, the fire like a worm, tunneling, burrowing, and eating away at her vulnerable and raw body, It was if she had begun to melt, like wax on a burning candle, the fire reaching her now exposed bones, the flesh on her fingertips and limbs now all but eaten away.

"How could you have forsaken us when we needed you most?"

Amidst the flames, she mustered all the strength she could find and tried leaping from the fire. Even with all the smoke and ash, she could see the veiled outlines of voices that were condemning her. They loomed ominously over her charring body like shadows in the night, not even the fire was able to hide them from sight. Without thinking twice, she leapt towards them. She did not why but deep inside she felt that she needed to reach whatever lied beyond the shroud. Stretching a scorched, bony arm, she reached for them with all her might.

Then, the burning weeds that had walled her in, wrapped themselves around her burning body. They were no longer stalks of tall grass.

They were hands. And they were pulling her down, back into the fire.

Back into hell.

Every fiber in her body resisted the hands that dug deep into her flesh. Like hooks, they had clawed their way into what little still clung her body and into her bones and tethered her to her demise. Her struggle was in vain as every attempt to rip herself free only burrowed the hands deeper and pulled her down further.

She would never escape the flames.

She would never escape here.

"How could you have done this us…?"

The voices called out one more time.

They were crying.

The ground had opened from where hands had come, pulling her deeper into her tomb. The flames only rose higher as the burning crumbling ground had begun to pile above her. Her arm remained outstretched, as if it were one last plea, one last attempt at reaching for the voices.

It would be for naught.

The world around her was darkening, her sight failing. The flickering light of the flames had begun to subside. Rock, dirt, and ash were her only companions. Trapped in her smoldering cocoon, and with what remained of her ears, she tried listening to voices one last time, desperate for something beyond this tomb.

…

"How could you have done this to us, Lucina?"

She screamed from her fiery grave.

* * *

She must have screamed in reality as well. Before Marth could come to her senses, she felt her limp body being gingerly lifted from clawing clutches of the cold floor and onto the safety of her cot. Her body's temperature must have dropped dangerously low because she instinctively clung to whomever was holding her so tenderly. But was she clinging on because of the cold or because she needed someone, anyone, at that moment, to simply hold onto in perhaps her most vulnerable moment since coming here? Even she wouldn't remember but at that instant she would distinctly remember the welcoming, warm reciprocating embrace of whomever held her, their warmth and strong arms slowly reeling away the nightmares that gnawed at the corners of her mind.

"It's okay…" A soothing voice called out to her as their arms rocked her back and forth gently. "It's over. You don't have to worry anymore."

This warmth and comfort… they almost felt familiar…

The person in question patiently held her, softly caressing the injured woman, until Marth herself decided to pull away quite abruptly. And that's when she noticed.

She had been crying.

Unable to face whoever stood before her, she turned away, pulling the sheets over her near-bare body. Not out of embarrassment, but out of shame. It was humiliating to display such… weakness.

It was an uncouth and selfish act but she just couldn't help herself. Quietly she cursed her own weakness, both in be able and unable to show it.

But before long, she had drifted into a deep, dreamless sleep, away from everything.

Just quiet.

* * *

Marth awoke to the morning birds' songs that echoed through the air and the rays of light that seeped into the billowing flaps of the tent. It was the crack of dawn and she could feel the chill in her bones but the light's soft embrace was a welcome reprieve from the clinging cold.

The light's warmth reminded her what could have only been assumed as the night before. Her nightmare and the mysterious individual who comforted her at the end. Did it really happen, she wondered? Had there really been someone in her tent that comforted her until she fell to asleep? Or was that just another figment of her imagination? Like a dream after a nightmare that was meant to wash away the dark residue left behind by its foul presence. The questions kept coming but Marth found no answers. Perhaps she would ask someone later to see if there had been anyone at all with her the night before. But before she could get around to doing that, she had other more urgent-at-hand matters to attend to.

Stretching out her sore body, Marth did not know how long she had been asleep until she awoke from the nightmare the night before. Had it been a day, several days, perhaps a week, since the defense of the Order's stronghold? She wasn't sure but her body felt as if months had passed. The familiar aching she felt was akin to the one she bore when she first arrived in Askr, a dull stabbing that pervaded every muscle and fiber in her body. She felt it in her fingers, her legs, even her eyes. Instinctively, she rubbed her eyes with firmly bandaged hands, doing whatever she could to massage away the dull yet constant pain that kept pulsing at every movement.

With stronger legs than from before, Marth slowly got off her cot and onto the floor. While the sunlight provided some heat, the tent was still relatively drafty. Looking by where she had awoken, Marth saw a neatly folded cloak that waited for her by the bedside chair. She quickly grabbed the garment and whipped it open, swinging it over her shoulders to shield her exposed upper body from the biting cold. She would find suitable clothes later but this would do for now.

Clumsily putting on her boots and donning her mask, she waddled out into the morning air beyond her tent. All was quiet in the Askrian camp, the birds had yielded to morning atmosphere, and the only sounds that filled the waking dawn were the crackling fires and marching of patrols. The snapping of the burning wood sent chills into Marth's body but she brushed those thoughts aside for the moment. She couldn't afford to let her mind wander back there again.

There was a boiling kettle that was hoisted over the fire on a spit. Feeling an awful emptiness in her stomach, Marth reached for the wooden handle of the steel kettle as she hastily grabbed one of the few scattered cups that laid before her. She picked up the cleanest looking one and poured the kettle's contents into it. The liquid was pitch black and was far from the aromatic drinks she tasted back in the capital but she didn't mind one bit. It was cold and she wanted something warm in her body, it wouldn't matter if the drink was green or blue. As long as it was warm, it wouldn't matter.

The black substance tasted… better than she anticipated. She half-expected it to taste like dirt and ash and reek of soot but it was much milder than its initial appearance and smell. There was a hint of herbs and a dash of roots as she fumbled around with its taste. Strange to be sure but she wasn't complaining.

"Does the tea suit your taste?"

Marth nearly spat out the liquid from her mouth as the voice came out of what appeared to be thin air. She had enough of disembodied voices for a while.

Turning around, she saw the raven-haired swordsmaster from Hector's unit. Despite the cold, the man was had the inside of blue flowing robe nearly bare save for his shirt that did little in covering his chest. His blood-red sword rested in its sheath, dangling by the man's belt.

"Don't be alarmed, I will stay my hand." The man said, following Marth's gaze. "I will not strike allies and I haven't killed anyone for taking my hard-brewed tea without permission." His eyes then flashed a fearsome look. "Yet." Marth could feel her blood run cold from just looking at him.

He sat down across from her on a rotting stump, unfastening his sword and setting it gently beside him. "The tea you are drinking is one that is hard to prepare. One must search long and far for its ingredients and then spend hours if not days preparing each vital component before it is ready to be brewed. But its painstaking efforts are worth it in the end for its fascinating properties."

Marth quietly sipped her drink. She afeared that if she interrupted the man she would offend him. After all, she did take the man's tea without so much as asking. The man took her silence as a gesture to keep talking.

He continued.

"It heightens the senses of the consumer and soothes their mind, allowing them to see things they might not have been able to see before while maintaining their calm." The man said, pouring a cup of his own. "A welcome addition for sparring. Perfect for the battlefield." The man slowly drank it down.

"I-I'm sorry." Marth finally said. "I should have been more prudent in regards to your belongings."

"As I said, don't be alarmed." The man replied with his eyes closed. "My niece, much like her own mother, keeps prodding me on, to share what my knowledge with our allies, to bolster our strength." He took another sip.

"Your niece?" Marth asked.

"Fir. She grows more like her mother every time she swings her sword."

Marth looked down at her cup, the black liquid barely able to reflect back at her.

"And after seeing you on the field, perhaps she is right."

The man set his cup down.

"There is something mysterious about you… Marth." He said opening his eyes and examining her body like a hawk. "You're quite skilled. You flow around the battle exceptionally and your swordsmanship is something to marvel… But you are also like a blank slate. All the finer points are present but there is something hollow in your form. Something completely lacking."

His words were sending shivers down her spine. What did he mean by hollow? A blank slate?

"I see that you are not carrying your sword." The man said, narrowing his eyes. "Foolish…"

Marth had completely forgotten about arming herself. Had the early days of peace she experienced in this land already begun to affect her? Back in her old world, she would never step foot out without arming herself with her sword first.

Falchion…

"I would have challenged you to a duel to see which of us had honed the finer technique… To see whether I was still worthy of being called the Wo Dao's master. To see if you would have made for me another worthy adversary" The man added, a subtle grin now on his face. "But perhaps you're wiser than I give you credit for."

It may have been a blessing in disguise that Marth didn't bring her sword with her this morning. She recalled the man's ferocity on the battlefield, how she could hardly keep up with the man's vivid yet vicious attacks as he wielded his blood-red sword. She would not be able to hold her own against him if he challenged her to a duel, not in this state at least.

"Karel," Marth said to her own surprise. The man's name had eluded her the entire time yet it sat on her tongue. "What is it that you fight for?" The man's method of speaking about swordsmanship and finding worthy opponents made her grow curious. What would a battle-lusting man like Karel be fighting for? What would he gain from allying with the Order?

"The same question everyone asks." Karel said, folding his arms. "What does the Sword Demon have to gain in fighting this war…?" He smirked. "To save worthy opponents."

"Save?"

"I have searched lands far and wide to see if there was anyone that could measure up to my blade. I desired to find and fight anyone who would be able to stand up to my technique." He was smiling now. "Here, I have the chance to meet and fight what fate calls heroes and legends of the world, perhaps the worthiest adversaries I will ever find in these long searchings of mine."

"But how does that save your opponents if you cut them down?"

Karel laughed, shaking his head. "You misunderstand me Marth. My adversaries aren't with Embla." He flashed a terrifying smile.

"They are with Askr."

Marth's eyes turned wide. "What do you mean?"

"If my enemy falls before even crossing my sword, they aren't worthy of being my opponents. But here, I am surrounded by swordsmen, swordswomen, lancers, halberdiers, axemen, berserkers, riders, and fighters, all hailing from the time when they were regarded as heroes and legends, all of which could give me the fight I so desire."

"Then what is keeping you here?" Marth asked. "Why don't you fight for Embla?"

Karel shook his head. "I fight for Askr and her enemies in order to keep these heroes to myself. These heroes are all growing stronger every day, I will not see to it that their fighting legacy ends on a mere Emblian soldier's lance."

"But if they did fall, then wouldn't that make them unworthy opponents for you?"

For once, Karel did not find an answer. Instead, he remained quiet and stoked the fire. Marth however could see the truth in the man's face. He had meant what he said. It was the same look of determination she had seen many times before back in her world. But there was more to it than that. Karel was fighting to protect something.

Or someone.

Not having received an answer, Marth quietly finished her tea. She thanked the swordsman for his hospitality to which she received no response.

"I forgot to ask," Marth began to say. "Who was watching my tent last night?"

"I've been setting camp here since the day you closed your eyes and have been preparing the tea for quite some time elsewhere." Karel said. "Roy was tasked with guarding your tent at night."

Roy. Marth would later ask him if he had heard or seen anyone in her tent.

"Then what about Genny?" Marth asked once more. "Have you seen her?"

"She was in charge of taking care of you. After you showed signs of recovering, she was moved to the capital to assist in funeral preparations."

Funeral? Was there going to be such a thing? Marth asked the swordsman again.

Karel kept feeding the fire. "You must not have heard. Understandable after your injuries. There is the grand funeral today in the capital, commemorating all those who fell in Askr's defense."

Marth looked around, she could see no one else. "Then what about you? Aren't you going to go?"

He shook his head, his jet-black hair swaying. "The dead are dead. They do not hear our words nor feel our emotions. Why would I waste my time in such a fruitless task when I could be spending it somewhere else?"

The man's harsh words were like a blow to the gut for Marth. The dead deserve all the respect and honor we can muster, she thought to herself. After all, they gave the ultimate sacrifice in giving their lives up for the greater good. But at the same time, she couldn't deny the truth in Karel's words. The dead, no matter how one would try, would not hear their heartfelt words nor would they be able to see how they were commemorating them. They were dead, in the ground, beyond saving.

Beyond reaching.

"But if you must insist on going," Karel said, interrupting her. "Just head straight towards the Merchant Manor. From there you will be able to see the Front Gate. When you do, march on down past the gate and you will eventually reach the ceremony."

But as Karel had finished Marth had already disappeared.

* * *

 **(A/N): Sorry for the wait. I published the chapter on Reddit but completely forgot about updating it on here. My bad. Well, I hope this makes up for it. Further updates are on there way. Thanks for reading and stay tuned for more!**

 **Cheers.**


	5. Chapter 5: Dust to Dust

Please enjoy.

Potential spoilers ahead. Please read at your own discretion.

* * *

"Marth? What are you doing here?"

The young, red-haired lord gave an exasperated greeting to the masked, and rather shoddily dressed, swordsman that stumbled about before him. Streams of sweat lined the masked hero's cheeks, his breathing heavy. It wouldn't take a master tactician or a trained healer to know that Marth was utterly exhausted. As a matter of fact, although Roy had heard that Marth was on the road to recovery, he did not expect him to be awake and moving about already. Even sister Genny had estimated that it would have taken at least several more day until Marth would have even regained consciousness, let alone walk.

Roy himself had seen the injuries Marth had subsequently sustained in at the Field of Fire, which all the other soldiers began to call it after hearing accounts of the inferno-like flames that swept the vast grassland. Roy saw the severe burns that lined Marth's arms and legs, cleanly burning away at most of the light armor Marth had been wearing during the skirmish. Perhaps the most perplexing was the state Marth's body was in when they had reached her. It was rigid, giving the impression that it had frozen in place, as if time had stopped for the warrior's body. His muscles were all tensed up and his body immovable from its pose as it lay on the charred ground. Nobody, not even the usually quippy Jeorge nor Genny herself, could explain what had occurred to Marth. But maybe the answer was much simpler. Even the many of the most battle- hardened fighters would be caught off guard and thrown into shock if they had been suddenly swarmed by wyvern riders and cavaliers and about to stampeded.

Roy knew he would have.

Despite his many training sessions with uncle Hector and Fir, battle meditation with Karel, and situational analysis with Jeorge, Roy couldn't have helped but feel shaken when he saw the vast swarm of enemies raining down on them. Even with uncle Hector and the rest of the strike force, they would not have been able to emerge from the sudden attack unscathed had not been for Lord Ephraim, or the Scourge as others referred to him as.

He really was as fearsome as Genny had once told him.

"Haa… I… Funeral… Need to find… the… hnnh…"

Marth had a hard time getting an entire sentence across but Roy had heard enough to understand. Roy pondered briefly as to where Marth could have found out about the grand funeral but quickly realized that Karel must have been the one to tell him. After all, the swordmaster refused to attend despite Fir's best efforts and went back to his fire by the intensive care tent. Maybe Roy should have also tried to persuade Karel with Fir but how could he have? Roy knew from both serving alongside the Sword Demon and sparring with his niece that the man rarely ever went back on his word or changed his mind once it was set on something. To make matters difficult, Prince Alfonse had ordered him to guard Marth's tent while he recovered. There was no way he could refuse a direct command from the crown prince. He would apologize to Fir when he got the chance.

"You're almost there." Roy replied, offering his shoulder to the weary warrior. "You've nearly reached Capital Square. But are you sure you want to attend? It isn't mandatory and given your current well-being."

Marth gritted his teeth. "I… I have to…"

Against his better judgment, Roy obliged. Genny would most likely scold him for allowing one of her patients to go about as they pleased but Roy could feel Marth's determination in spite of the man's weak steps. One way or another, the masked man was going to get to the funeral whether Roy tried stopping him or not. He silently apologized to his acting older sister under his breath.

"You… You guarded my tent last night…"

Roy nodded.

"Did anyone… enter?" Marth weakly said.

Roy was quiet for a moment. The night before was as quiet as could be save for the occasional animal in the distance. Nobody unknown came by the tent, he and Karel made sure of that. But there was something however. Karel had alerted him to a shadow-like figure that was roaming nearby and the two briefly left to investigate. Nobody turned up and the night resumed. Roy, while wanting to tell him, had no desire of needlessly worrying Marth.

He simply shook his head no.

* * *

The two slowly marched into the silent city. Many of its inhabitants had closed their shops and livelihoods today to mourn. The usually bustling capital was as quiet as the aftermath on a battlefield. Roy could feel the somber aura that had enveloped the city. He was sure Marth could too. This wasn't Roy's first grand funeral. But the melancholy affected him all the same.

The first one he attended was held after the Siege of Vaskrheim. It was an ancient temple that rested in the middle of the continent and was decreed as a demilitarized zone for both kingdoms since long ages past. Embla broke their end of the pact and attacked an Askrian expedition party that was sent to investigate the secrets and history of the temple. Legends had it that secrets of the divine weapon Breidablik were stored there, secrets that were too valuable to lose. His father rode with the vanguard assigned to protect the leaders of the expedition which included Kiran himself.

Out of a band of fifty, only nine returned.

Embla ambushed the unwary Askrian forces while they explored the ruins of the ancient temple. It wasn't a simple attack either. While the expedition team was trapped within the ruins, Embla wasted no time in fortifying their position, The Emblian forces had previously dug trenches to the south side of the temple among the thickets of trees and nestled wooden spikes along the outside perimeter to prevent outside forces from reaching the vast temple. Sentry nests were quickly raised to keep fliers at bay in the sky. Nobody would be able to reach the temple and nobody would be able to escape.

Askrian reinforcements tried their damnedest to break through the Emblian defensive line but their forces were spread out far too thinly. Uncle Hector was fighting a campaign on the Archanean Front and was too far away to contact or be of any help. Aunt Lyn was part of an envoy, which still remained missing to this day, that was sent to a distant world and beyond reaching. Had any of them heard that Roy's father was in danger, they would have wasted no time in swinging their entire battalions on the Emblian army in order to reach him.

With many of their strongest divisions fighting on different fronts, Commander Anna gathered what available forces she had to free their trapped allies once they had heard the news of Embla's treachery. Roy had been off training with Karel and Fir at the time in the enchanted woods of Baard, far from the front.

Three days had passed while the siege was well underway. There was no progress. Embla had repelled Askr's every attempt at breaking through their defensive line. The nearest band of reinforcements was a day's ride away. Askrian morale was dropping fast. Without Kiran, the war would inevitably be lost.

Then, when the battle was at its darkest hour, a surge of hope was ignited. Reports from Embla had detailed that a red-haired noble leading a band of fierce warriors rushed from the temple and stormed the Emblian forces from the inside. Taking advantage of the sudden attack, the Askrian army put forth all their possible might in one final push and broke through the walls of Embla's defense. Fighting from such a disadvantageous position, the Emblian forces inevitably withdrew from Vaskrheim. The survivors that remained in the temple were rescued but Lord Eliwood, Kiran, and many others remained missing. Scouts reported that while the main Emblian forces were pulling back, a sizeable riding division broke away from the main unit, chasing an unknown target. None of the riders returned to Embla but there were no survivors.

None besides Kiran who rode back to Vaskrheim, gaunt, bloodied, and unconscious.

The army would later find out from the spies that the riders weren't chasing a target.

They were on their way back to Vaskrheim to take down as many of the Order's forces as possible.

Kiran and Eliwood lead the counter attack in halting the Emblian strike force.

Roy later found out that his father did so knowing full well that he would not come back alive.

Eliwood's sword was returned to his next of kin and was delivered to Roy.

Eliwood's body was never found.

It was a failed expedition that cost countless lives of the Order.

A grand funeral was held in lieu to honor the fallen. Dark rain clouds had gathered that day. It rained with no end in sight. Uncle Hector cursed himself to no end. The funeral pyre's blue flames did not yield to the sky's rain.

Roy swore to do the same.

* * *

Roy snapped out of his revery as he saw that Marth's feet had begun to drag. Gently unwrapping the masked warriors arm off of his shoulder, he set him down by the Great Fountain that lied in the middle of Capital Square. They had reached the funeral.

A giant crowd of people had gathered in the square. The funeral had begun. A great many rows of wrapped bodies lined the funeral pyre. The blue flames quickly caught everything ablaze within. Roy was reminded yet again of the vast amount of lives lost in the fight. He had lamented his powerlessness at the magnitude of the dead but when he saw the faces of his allies and friends, of Hector, of Jeorge, of Genny, of Fir, he knew that their faces could have been the ones to rest atop the blue flames had it not been for the sacrifice of the many soldiers that lay before him. Silently, he prayed that their deaths be not in vain and be avenged.

Busy with quiet contemplation, Roy would later find out that Marth disappeared from the grand funeral.

* * *

Marth had quietly slipped out of the funeral procession. It pained her to dishonor the dead like so but she had much more urgent matters to attend to. While, with Roy's aid, she made it to the funeral, she caught a glimpse of a figure moving seamlessly away from the gathered crowd. It wasn't an intruder. She saw locks of sea-green hair peer from beyond the figures hooded visage. Along with swift movements that made it appear that the figure was drifting away and the cold aura it emanated, Marth was sure of who it was.

She just had to find him.

She saw him moving back towards the Front Gate. She ran as fast as her weary legs could carry her drained body. She soon reached the underpass of the great arch.

She dodged out of public sight as best she could. Her exhaustion was real but her fatigue before Roy was a feint to leave him unsuspecting of her true motives. Something inside her compelled to find the man, the man that saved her that day, the one who wielded the fearsome lance.

"Why are you here…?"

Marth jumped back, as much as her legs could. She was now deep within the Front Gate's passage. She quickly searched for the owner of the voice, her eyes darting from every corner of the wide underpass looking for the hooded figure. All she could see were the busts and statues that adorned the marble walls. She took a deep breath and closed her eyes, her heart and mind racing. She wanted to make the tea Karel had given her before do its work.

A familiarly cold hand rested on her shoulder but she anticipated this. Gripping the gloved hand with her left, she swung her right fist backwards, dagger in hand. She had unnoticeably pilfered it off the unwary Roy. She would return it to him later. She tried halting the charcoal blade by the hooded man's neck but her hands couldn't act in time. The tip of the dagger grazed the man's cheek, a narrow stream of blood flowing from the cut. The hood and hair hid his eyes but Marth could see a slow smile on the man's face.

"For a hero, you're quick to turn on your allies."

"I'm no he—" Marth began to say.

The man suddenly reeled back, swinging his elbow out against Marth's extended arm. A sharp pain erupted across her right arm, enough for her to loosen her grip on the knife. The knife's grip escaped her fingers. Marth tried spinning her body to the left to face the man.

Then, a powerful hand charged against her chest and pushed her towards the wall, knocking the air out of her, and pinning her against it.

She hit the wall so fast and with such force that her cloak tore from her shoulders and her mask tumbled off from her, freeing her face and her flowing hair from its grip.

She tried to gasp in pain but her throat wouldn't comply.

The knife she once held now rested a mere hairbreadth away from her bare neck.

She did not even have time to react.

She felt her heart stop.

But the man proceeded no further. The knife did not retreat from her neck but Marth could feel the malice that was previously in his movements fading away. His hard gaze had started to weaken. He slowly pulled back his vise-like grip on her, leaving her against the wall. Marth's legs refused to hold her up and she slid down against the marble wall. She couldn't hide her fear at her close brush with death. She wasn't sure if the man would have actually slit her throat but she felt that she shouldn't test that idea any further.

The man turned away, his hood abandoning its previous task of hiding his face.

Marth, with shaky hands, instinctively gripped her sides, trying to shield herself from the invading cold. If someone were to see her right now, her secret would be made known. Even still, her bewildered body refused to cover herself up. Her meager attempts of keep the cold away were futile. She began to shiver.

"You shouldn't be here."

The man now stood in front of her, towering above her. All Marth could do was silently look at him, her weakened body succumbing to the cold. The man tried to turn away but he hesitated briefly.

Looking back down at Marth, he unfastened his outer garb and put it over Marth's shivering shoulders. Instantly, warmth began to return to Marth's bones, the cold no longer seeping into her body. She tightly embraced the fabric around her body as if searching for more warmth.

"Th-thank you…" She barely whispered, her voice as thin as air.

The man was too busy fixing the cloak for her and did not reply. He straightened out the hood and evenly spread the cloak down the middle, adjusting it to fit properly on Marth's smaller frame. He was much bigger than she was.

He began to speak.

"Why are you following me?" He asked, his eyes staring straight into hers, demanding answers. Marth felt as if the gaze was peering into her soul.

She gulped, her throat dry. She had no answer. The only truth to her actions were that she felt the need—nay, she had to—follow after him. Something about this man kept scratching her at the edge of her mind. She had nothing to say.

She shook her head, her intent unclear.

"If you think I'm like the rest of these heroes, forget the very idea."

Marth raised her head to protest.

"What? Speak up."

"Y-you saved me…" Marth said, voice trembling.

He scoffed. "You think that makes me some sort of hero? A savior?"

"You're here, aren't you?" Marth reasoned. "In the Order of Heroes?"

"Then what about you?" The man shot back. "You claim you're no hero and you wholeheartedly believe that. Why are you here?"

Marth could not respond.

The man looked away, his gaze distant down towards end of the underpass. "One good deed does not wash away the bad." He stood up, away from Marth, and approached a particular statue. He placed his hand on the statue's own before closing his eyes. Marth could see that the man was muttering something inaudibly to himself.

Feeling some strength back in her limbs, Marth forcefully brought herself back to her feet. She still felt off-balance but she would bear it. She slowly limped her way to the man who paid her no mind. He seemed miles away.

"Then why?" Marth called out. "Why did you save me?"

The man did not look at her.

"Why did you go out of your way to save someone like me?"

The faint smile she had seen before slowly grew on his face as he looked up at the statue's own.

"Because you're something I'm not."

"But—"

"If you still think I'm a hero after all I've done," the man interrupted. "You're perhaps crazier than I am."

He took his hand off of the marble statue. Turning away, he walked away from Marth.

He was going to disappear from her again.

Marth had to stop him from leaving.

Her mind raced. There was no way she could reach him in her current state. He was already too far away.

What could she do?

…

"Ephraim!"

The man suddenly stopped. Marth could tell that he was shaken at his name being called.

How did she remember it?

"You… you said that you weren't a hero… and how a good act doesn't wash away the bad…"

Ephraim didn't respond.

"But neither does the bad smear aside the good…"

"…"

"You said… you said I'm something you're not…" She said, slowly inching her way to the distanced lord. "Then prove it…"

Ephraim had turned to face her.

"Prove to me..." She said, her lungs strained from her outbursts. "Prove to me that you're right..."

Before she knew it, she had miraculously reached him. She leaned against the statue he had previously touched.

"Make me a hero." Marth finally said. "Show me that you're right…"

She stared at Ephraim with eyes filled with fire.

"Show me… that I was worth saving…"

Her hand slipped away from the marble of the statue. Her feet buckled. She would have fallen had it not been for the silent lord that caught her in his arms. Despite his cold hands, Marth felt a certain warmth in his grasp.

He helped her back to her feet.

She looked up at him.

He leaned his head next to hers, his breath wrapping around her ear.

"Northwest. Edge of Askr."

"I—"

"Marth!"

Before Marth had a chance to reply, she heard a familiar voice calling out to her from the opposite side of the underpass. Turning around, she saw two figures running down to her. The light at the end of the passageway hid their identities but Marth recognized the voices. She slowly began to walk to them before she turned to face Ephraim again.

But the man that held her was gone.

Like the wind, he had disappeared without a trace.

But it didn't matter. She knew where to find him next. She turned back to the voices and began to walk towards them.

She then realized that she was no longer wearing her mask.

Almost in a panic, Marth frantically searched the area for her precious disguise.

… Precious…

When all seemed lost, she nearly collapsed before the statue. But as she did, her hand grazed against something that wasn't the smooth marbling of the sculpture.

It was steel.

Looking up, in the hand of the statue before her, her butterfly mask lay waiting, similarly to how the winged creature would rest atop a flower. She quickly put on her disguise but not before she realized that this was the very statue Ephraim was staring at before. It was that of a beautiful woman, her long hair to the side as if blown by the wind, one hand armed with a fierce sword, and the other extended forward, as if to help all those that had fallen and were in need. Despite being carved from lifeless stone, Marth could feel an aura of strength and grace radiate from the statue.

Why had Ephraim stopped by her, Marth wondered as she quickly looked over the name that had been etched beside the graceful lady.

She trudged onward towards her allies.

But a thought still lingered on.

...

Who was the Restoration Lady?

* * *

Thanks for reading. All feedback/words are welcome. Stay tuned for more!

Cheers.


	6. Chapter 6: To Seek Counsel

Potential Spoilers ahead. Read at your own discretion.

* * *

The mourning bells of Askr rung overhead, echoing its deep eulogy across the quiet capital, breaking the uncontested silence. The bells' cries reached high to soar with the fleeting wind and low to call out to the fallen. While many would have heard the bells' cry as a prayer, to Marth it felt more like the dead's final scream.

The scream of the undying.

It made her uneasy.

They soon escaped the cacophony of the bells as the two entered into the cool antechamber of the royal castle. Its great walls and columns that seemed to stretch far and beyond beat away the outside clamor, as the only sound that filled cold air was the hard clacking of their footsteps.

Marth's steps were in unison with that of the silver-haired butler, Jakob, that lead her past the unfamiliar halls of the quiet castle. Roy had been with the two moments before until he had to leave due to further engagements. He apologized profusely but said that he had to part early.

A sparring match, one he could not lose or miss out on.

Jakob had a rather displeased look on his face at the time but permitted the young lord to leave for his sudden excursion. Marth overheard the butler muttering under his breath about how people would often leave an unending load of tasks for him to deal with. Marth prayed that her body be able to keep up with butler lest she further pestered him.

Jakob had told her that Prince Alfonse and Commander Anna had summoned her to the throne room. Marth asked why of course but the butler remained adamant that she save her questions for the crown prince himself.

The rest of the journey remained quiet and uneventful after that. Jakob allowed Marth to not get a word in edgewise. There was no room for smalltalk. He was all about getting his job done. And Marth respected that. Being a direct servant under the prince was a daunting job to be sure but the butler showed no signs of weakness and fatigue. There was vigilance in his actions and movements, despite his sour attitude.

It was quite admirable, Marth quietly thought to herself.

They passed a large set of doors and entered a much smaller room than the great, foreboding hall from before. Askr's banners, a golden emblem of intricately lain and folded gold, adorned the columns that inhabited the room they stood in, the golden brimmed banners swaying silently, yet magnificently, with the oncoming breeze from the vacant windows. The room itself was softly illuminated by the warm light that flowed in from the stained-glass panes, each one decorated beautifully and depicting moments in the Order's long and proud history. Marth felt as if she were delving into the pages of a history book, something Genny planned on doing with her. Marth wondered what the cleric had been up to ever since the battle. She hoped that the young girl was alright.

But those thoughts were slowly pushed to the back of her mind as Marth approached the center of the throne room. She could make out Prince Alfonse and the red-haired commander, and several other rather important-looking individuals, waiting for her ahead. Marth felt a sudden chill inside, the previously warm light denying her any sanctuary in its reach. Perhaps her body still felt nervous at the prospect of suddenly being called for by the Askrian nobility or maybe it was because the audience that awaited her. But as she made eye-contact with the blue-haired prince, he returned with an approachable air and warm smile. It helped a bit in thawing away the feeling she had in her bones.

"Thank you, Jakob." The prince said graciously. "We'll take it over from here."

The butler put his metal-encased fist over his breast and bowed as he took his leave. In a matter of seconds, his previously constant boot steps all but disappeared from the already quiet air.

Marth felt a dozen eyes on her.

She wasn't exactly suitable for presentation either. She hardly had anytime to be proper dressed, only opting for a cloak that was only worn to conceal her body and her secret. And with that previously well-fitting now torn to pieces, she was wearing a stranger's in its stead.

A stranger whose build was much too large for her.

It looked quite ridiculous, with its sleeves far too long for her arms and its tail nearly dragging on the floor. Her appearance looked akin to that of a child wearing her father's clothes. She thanked the gods that the coat at least did its job of hiding her modest body. Her identity was a secret that she still was determined to protect.

Even if Lord Ephraim knew.

Move or get run over girl.

The lord's words from the battle before suddenly loudly rang in her ears.

How did he know?

* * *

"Thank you for coming on such short notice." Prince Alfonse whispered, his voice firm but warm as he walked beside Marth. "We heard that you only recently woke up since receiving your injuries."

"Please," Marth replied, shaking her head. "Heed me no mind."

Alfonse stopped and smiled. "As you will." His face then became serious as he turned to the rest of the members that gathered with him. Alfonse marched unto the podium designated for royalty.

The finely robed men and women dressed in probably their finest silk sat on their raised seats, as if to tower over Marth. Marth recognized none of the gathered individuals, Prince Alfonse and Commander Anna being the only faces she recognized. She was at the center of a circle surrounded by strangers.

"Kneel before the crown prince of Askr!" A corpulent, robed man bellowed, commanding all those who stood in the room before Marth. The robed men and women swiftly bent their knees as Alfonse stood atop the pedestal. Marth, quickly catching on, bent her knee as well. It was a clear gesture of respect, she did not want to leave a bad impression on those whom she had been called before.

"Please be seated my good sirs." The prince proclaimed as he motioned with a powerful wave of his hand over the nobles. There was a rustling of robes as the men and women sat on their seats. Marth remained kneeling before him.

"You may be wondering why we called you here today Marth. We understand that it was a sudden request." Prince Alfonse announced, beginning the meeting. "I am sure you would like to know."

"Yes milord." Marth answered. She felt as if she had been shoved beneath a looking glass the way the gathered audience looked at her. She felt as if they were inspecting every inch of her unpolished appearance. She cursed herself for not being more vigilant in dressing herself at dawn.

"We shall, in due time." Alfonse replied. He then motioned with his hand towards his commander who stood behind him. While being the commander of the Order's forces, she was also the Prince's sworn protector. A retainer of sorts. She carried a scroll at her side.

The red-haired commander unraveled the fresh parchment.

She read in a commanding voice, fitting of her position.

"Marth, warrior hailing from the Halidom of Ylisse, in your short time here you have served the Order well. You were at the forefront at the Field of Fire and assisted General Hector and his men at defending the Order's stronghold by the sacred forest Baard. Without even being officially inducted into the Order, you did not hesitate in offering your sword to our cause. You have even sustained severe injuries during the battle yet you did not run. You held fast and stayed loyal to those who called you their immediate ally. For that, the Order thanks you for your selflessness."

Marth remained silent, as the commander continued reading.

"Under normal circumstances, those who have been summoned are put through trials and tests before they are officially inducted into the Order. This is done to hone their bodies and test their will. But for you, we would like to make an exception."

Intrigued, Marth raised her head and faced Anna. "An exception?"

The commander nodded. "We have seen your skill and your desire to do what is right. As a result, we offer you two choices. The first is a full rite of passage into the Order, without the need for the set trials others have been made to do. You will be titled a Hero of the Order and officially accepted into our ranks."

Marth contemplated quietly for a moment. "What is my other choice?"

"You dare seek an alternative? When the Order is graciously giving you its most generous offer, you ask what the other choice is?"

A sharp voice shouted from besides the commander. The voice belonged to a wire-thin man he bore holes into Marth with his gaze alone. With a talon-like finger, he pointed at her, almost accusingly.

"Marth meant no disrespect, Mauder." Commander Anna said sternly. "Stand down."

But the man refused to relent from his stance. "Other heroes more deserving of this treatment have been forced to go through the rigorous and back-breaking training in order to attain their rightful place in the Order. Yet, this masked… swordsman, who only fought in one battle, is deliberately looking for another way in despite what we are offering."

"Calm yourself, man." The rotund man from earlier said. "We're not here to squabble like children."

"I will not hear it Wald." The thin man retorted. "I was not made explicitly aware of these suggestions and am not going to sit by at let them pass. Just look at the mess presented before us Wald, you'll see."

Other members in the gathered council seemed to agree with man, Mauder, and his sentiments. Their stares began to hurt.

"… And look at the way this Marth has been presented before us! Dressed in rags. What are we, a tavern audience? Where is the sense of dignity other heroes carry themselves with…?"

"I also did not see Marth at the grand funeral. The audacity in that one…"

"Where were you doing the funeral?"

"Where's your sense of respect?"

"You don't deserve to be in the Orde-"

"Enough!" Prince Alfonse roared, anger hidden behind his commanding voice. "That is enough! I will not abide for such bickering and disrespect before a warrior that fought valiantly for us. You will hold your tongues or be removed from this room AND the council. That isn't a suggestion. It's an order."

Before anyone noticed, Commander Anna stood behind the wiry man, her hand resting on his shoulder, at the ready to eject the unruly noble. Even Marth hadn't seen the commander make her way towards him. The other members of council were equally astonished.

But Mauder wasn't fazed in the slightest.

"I did not agree to this plan!" Mauder cried out. "Are we going to be as lenient as to let in a complete stranger into our ranks just because they fought and bled on a battlefield?"

"Then perhaps you should take Marth's place. Fight, sweat, bleed. That would be a nice change of pace, wouldn't it? Maybe then you'd know when to shut your noble mouth."

The room went completely silent. For the first time even Mauder couldn't find his voice Every council member couldn't contain their shock at hearing such words. They looked amongst themselves but found out that the voice did not belong to any of the invited individuals that sat before Marth.

It was a voice that came from behind her.

A man stood alone, bearing splintered armor and a tattered cape. His unkempt sea-green hair rested haphazardly over his forehead.

He bore an unsettling smile.

This wasn't like the same quiet man Marth saw earlier today.

"Lord Ephraim?" Marth mouthed to no one in particular.

"Scourge!" Mauder barked, his face reddening. "How dare you show your face back here after—"

"I don't answer to you Mauder." Ephraim spat, a deep malice in his voice. There seemed to be deep history between the two, Marth thought to herself. "I'm no lapdog to some shriveled coward of a man."

"How dare… What do you—" Mauder began to say before trailing off as beads of sweat lined his wrinkling face. He looked over at Prince Alfonse. "You summoned him here?"

The prince gave a glare that rivaled that of Mauder's own. "Hold your tongues or be removed. You heard my order, did you not?"

"But I—"

"You heard my order. Did you or did you not, Sir Mauder?"

Mauder was quiet for the first time. Marth could see the contempt on his face.

"… I did."

"And yet you keep insisting on opening your mouth."

In a single bound, the infamous lord landed right in between Mauder and the councilman's desk, closing the gap entirely.

"Or perhaps you would like your tongue to be removed? That could also be arranged."

The wiry man scrambled backwards, his robes fluttering wildly behind him.

"You'd resort to such violence in discussion, milord?!" Mauder cried aloud. "You'd be no better than that Emblian girl!"

Prince Alfonse had closed his eyes, his arms folded before him. "I haven't resorted to anything Sir Mauder."

Eyes full of spite, the older man stare at the young prince.

"Yet."

Ephraim gave the noble an unnerving look.

"I welcome discussion and disagreements Sir Mauder." Alfonse began to say. "It helps us eventually correct ourselves from our past mistakes and allows to reflect on our choices and future decisions. Such things strengthen us and help us avoid failure."

The man said nothing.

"What I will not tolerate is a sheer lack of respect to any and all who have been summoned by Kiran to Zenith. I will not allow such unwarranted attacks against someone who has fought and bled for us go unchecked and remain unchecked."

"Such behavior is unbecoming of you, Mauder." The bone-chilling lancer added.

Mauder gritted his teeth. "Do you know who I am Scourge? I am Lord Mauder, part of a noble house that has been a generous benefactor to Askr and the Order in their time of need and a leading member of the High Council in the Order."

"And one of those titles are due for a change, Lord Mauder." Ephraim said, a sadistic glow in his eyes. "I'll leave it up to you to decide which one."

"That is enough Lord Ephraim." Alfonse spoke up. The lancer nodded curtly before stepping back. Alfonse turned his hard stare to the councilman who still trembled with rage. "I have offered you a choice, sir. Two in fact. Perhaps a generosity in your eyes after your misconduct before Marth here."

Marth's eyes darted around the room. All sights were set on Sir Mauder. Even his fellow council members that agreed with his sentiments eyed him nervously. The adamant councilman stayed quiet, his fists clenched so hard the whites of his knuckles were visible beneath his leathery skin.

"What will it be?"

There was a long period of silence and it felt as if time had stopped for the council. It seemed as if everyone had stopped breathing altogether.

"I yield."

* * *

The rest of the meeting went without much problems or room for discussion. It helped that Lord Ephraim maintained a steady and vigilant watch over the meeting, like a hawk seeking for prey, for any dissenters that wished to get unruly. Every member of the council, sans the still scowling Mauder, unanimously agreed to allow Marth to join the Order of Heroes without the need of trials of any sorts. Marth still wasn't able to get a clear answer of what her second option was but she felt that she had overstayed her welcome amidst the council and decided it would be for the best to ask such menial questions at a later date.

The council had been adjourned and the members scurried away into the shadows of the castle, almost like mice avoiding their predator. In a matter of seconds, the throne room hall had been emptied with only Marth, Ephraim, Alfonse, and Anna being the remaining few. Marth wanted to speak with Ephraim but something about his demeanor made him unapproachable. He remained leaning against one of the columns in the hall, arms folded, eyes closed, quiet. Prince Alfonse made his way to her instead.

"I'm sorry you had to sit through that, Marth." He apologized. "Mauder has a reputation for being at odds with me and my methods. It happened that you were at the center of his wrath today. I would like to apologize on his behalf for his unruly misconduct."

"Oh, no. Please." Marth said, shaking her head, almost guilt-ridden. "I should have been more considerate with how I presented myself before the council. My appearance is atrocious."

Alfonse laughed softly, "That did certainly feed fuel to the fire but that wasn't your fault. When we received reports that you had regained consciousness, we acted immediately to get the proper regulations in order."

"Proper regulations?"

"Yes." Alfonse nodded, his mannerisms still apologetic. "You were summoned at an ill opportune time, pardon my phrasing. Normally a summoned hero would be met with our tactician, council, and royalty at first arrival. That's what today was supposed to have been for you, but given the unending stream of trouble we have had the these past few days, it had been delayed until today. All that remains is your choice."

"My choice, huh?" Marth said to herself. She knew the first offer she had been given. It was to join the Order straightaway without going through any of the mentioned trials the council members and Anna had mentioned. She would be officially titled as a hero of the Order and serve on the battlefield. But that was only of the options she had been given. She still didn't know what the second one was. Maybe the time was right to ask. "What is the other choice you would have offered me?"

"Under normal circumstances, we would have offered you your freedom in returning back to your world. Some heroes preferred to continue living out their purposes in their homeworlds and decline the prospect of fighting for the Order. We must respect the heroes' decisions."

"Under normal circumstances?" Marth asked. She had been hearing that phrase quite often today. She was concerned at the choice of the prince's words.

"Marth, I know this may be sudden for you but please bear with me." The prince said, his voice grave and his face grim. "We should have told you this earlier but…"

"Told me what?"

"Marth, you can't return to your world."

Marth wasn't sure she was hearing right. She did recall the first day that they had me that Alfonse had assured her that she would be allowed to return back to her own world.

Back to her own fight.

"Wh-what do you mean Prince Alfonse?"

Alfonse gave a remorseful sigh.

"The gate to your world had been destroyed."

* * *

Prince Alfonse collapsed onto his couch in his resting quarters. The day had drained him both of his body and spirit. The meeting with the council could have gone better but also could have been steered into a much worse direction.

Lord Ephraim had really done well in the meeting today. Alfonse had some doubts regarding how the lord may have carried himself but all his worries were for naught. Mauder had been reigned in and the meeting resumed without any hiccups afterwards. Of course, Alfonse went to thank the lord for his work but the lancer brushed him off, telling him to save his thanks.

"I'm not doing this for you." He had told him.

From a funeral to lead to a council meeting he had to attend, the court life of prince was still something he needed time in getting used to.

He admired his younger sister's tenacity in dealing with people and wished for her strength at times but knew that weight of court life would crush his beloved sister. He took it upon himself to run Askr in the absence of his parents, letting Sharena fight alongside the heroes of the Order. Her naivety, while posing a danger, was an innocence that Alfonse wished to protect.

A giant stack of paperwork laid before him on his work desk. Documents that needed his seal of approval and the like. Running a kingdom during a war was a grueling job. He would have to meet with taskmasters, nobles, army officers, strategists, and benefactors day by day.

It worked him to the bone.

Yet, he could not afford to rest.

If someone like Marth could steel herself in finding an answer for herself after hearing such dire news, he could rise to the challenge as well. It wasn't for the sake of keeping face. While keeping court appearances were one of the many lessons he was taught, the mission he had been tasked with, in bringing victory to Askr and peace to Zenith, trumped all.

For the sake of his people, for the sake of the Order, he would remain steadfast on the path he had chosen for himself.

It wasn't an easy one.

He lost many on the way, fellow comrades, peers, citizens…

Friends…

Another day awaited him. And in order to protect those who had placed their trust in him, he would not falter in his duties. Rising from his resting place, Alfonse marched over to his desk to start the end of another day. He reached for the stack of papers.

The door opened. A red-haired officer strode on in, unannounced, vigor in every step.

"Evening commander." Alfonse said, not lifting his eyes from the documents. The red-haired commander stopped abruptly before his desk yet he did not break his attention away.

"Alfonse, I know you were trying to do the right thing in there, but openly challenging a council member, especially one of Mauder's caliber, is a dangerous play." The commander had told him, matter-of-factly.

The crown prince set his quill aside, looking directly his advisor. "Then what would you have me do commander? Let the man mouth off as he pleases? I will permit no such behavior in the council. If I allow such insolence, it will only create further dissent. He needs to know that there are consequences to his actions."

"Sir, or should I say Lord, Mauder is a wealthy benefactor to the Order. He will not let this slight go unnoticed. We may lose his support."

Alfonse brought his hands down unto his desk forcefully "Then lose him we shall! Such disrespect to heroes is an unacceptable course of action. If we are to win this war, we shall do it the right way. And if it means that we won't have to rely on someone like Mauder, then so be it."

With those words, silence had returned to the room. But it wasn't the comfortable silence Alfonse normally sat in. It was a gutting silence, that left people on edge, unsure of what to do. Alfonse tried to resume his paperwork.

"You sound quite like your father." Anna said, breaking his concentration.

Alfonse felt that he might have snapped the quill he held in his hands if he gripped it any harder. "I know what you're trying to say. That his stubbornness to do what was right got him killed."

"Don't take what I'm trying to say wrong Alfonse." Anna said, almost pleadingly. "Your father was a good man and he ruled this nation well. But sometimes doing the right thing means thinking for the long run."

"What are you trying to tell me here commander?" He spat. "That I should let someone like Mauder, someone who stands against what I stand for, get away with whatever he wants with reckless abandon?"

"I'm telling you to be careful Alfonse!"

Silence. Alfonse hadn't noticed that the quill he held had shattered, its fragments cutting into his hands.

"I know you care about the well-being and respect of your troops, I really do Alfonse. But think about what would happen to them if we were to lose Mauder's funding. That means less rations, equipment, and supplies for the entire Order. Can we be really fine with that?"

Alfonse sat quietly, closing his eyes. "It still does not sit right with me to openly welcome such men into the Order's council."

"As it does with me Alfonse. But sometimes, for the greater good, we must let the lesser evils like Mauder prevail. It may be tough to keep face and keep up with such a person but if you really are looking out for your troops, then you will stop and think before acting brashly."

"You're telling me to compromise."

"That is a key component in dealing business. You must learn to compromise, even with men as rude and unruly as Mauder. Only then can you truly plan for the things to come."

Leaning back his chair, Alfonse fell quiet once more. He then noticed that Anna had been gripping his hands with her own, even as they bled.

He raised his head to look at his commander.

"Is this another one of the commanding officer's wise sayings?"

"Just some advice from one friend to another." Anna said softly.

Alfonse sighed and smiled gently. His previous anger and doubt thawing away.

"Thank you, commander. I will heed your advice and go speak to make amends with Sir Mauder."

Anna returned with a soft smile of her own, one that was rarely seen by anyone in the Order.

"You can just call me Anna, milord."

* * *

 **(Author's Note):** **Thanks for reading! I hope you enjoyed. Feedback and words are always appreciated. Thanks again**

Cheers.


	7. Chapter 7: Beyond Blades

**Potential spoilers ahead. Read at your own discretion.**

* * *

"Euu-ouch! That really stings!"

"Please Lord Roy, I won't be able to treat your wounds properly if you squirm like so every time I apply the disinfectant. Uncle Karel will scold me if I waste any more of his herbal salves."

Gritting his teeth, Roy sat through the pain with the campfire's light illuminating his grimaced face. Thankfully, no one else was there to see him in such a sorry state, as all the other heroes had all but retired to the quarters and tents for the night.

"I'm sorry Fir."

Almost no one, that is.

Fir's gaze met his briefly before she went back to tending his many cuts that lined his right shoulder, her eyes widened from surprise at his response. Her hands were quickly working at applying the salve to his fresh wounds. They had only stopped bleeding just recently. Fir made sure of that.

"Huh? Uh, n-no, I didn't mean it that way Lord Roy." She began to say. "Of course they wouldn't be wasted on someone like you." She mumbled the last part.

"Eugh-ow—did you say something?" Roy asked, grimacing in pain.

"Oh, I… n-no. No, I didn't say anything." She stammered, resuming her work. She peeled the blood encrusted bandages that were bound around Roy's back further down. The wounds themselves weren't terribly life threatening but Roy had sustained quite a lot and had been bleeding severely.

The whole situation, while to outsiders might seem very grandly out of the ordinary, didn't feel so to the two.

In fact, most of it felt natural, if not for Roy's far more serious wounds this time around.

The two had spent many a sleepless night in each other's company since the time they arrived. Whether from training, sparring, treating each other's wounds, or reminiscing the life before Askr, they would usually be found by their friends in each other's company. Where one was, the other was bound to. They carried a bond that many would describe as inseparable.

"That bear really did a number on you, Lord Roy." Fir said, trying to steer away from the awkward direction of the previous conversation. She applied the salve gingerly around the swollen tissue. Roy still jumped at her mere touch but it was less boisterous than before. "If I had stayed by your side then maybe…"

Roy shook his head stiffly. Without his headband to hold up his hair, it dropped over, covering most of his scratched face. It seemed like a red mop was being tossed from side-to-side. "You saw for yourself Fir—oh gods this burns—your attacks did nothing against it."

She bit her lower lip, unable to retort. Roy was indeed right. When the bear reared back to swipe its terrifying claws at her, she swung her training sword with all her might against its side in an effort to stun it. The only thing her attack did was agitate it further as it snapped the sturdy wood cleanly in half with a single paw. Had it not been for Lord Roy who pushed her away at the last second, their current roles may have been reversed.

And while Roy got her out of the bear's way safely, he himself wasn't so lucky.

"Easy, now." Fir huffed as she finished examining the three giant, grisly gashes that streaked across Roy's well-toned back. "… You may not like this next part."

"I haven't been liking any of this so far Fir…" He moaned.

Ignoring his comment, Fir held up a needle and thread, examining the pointed needle one last time as it glistened from the fire. She had to make sure it was properly clean. She dared not use a needle that wasn't clean or up to her standard on a patient.

Especially if that patient was a close friend like Roy.

She took a deep breath to ready herself, and steel her nerves, as she lined the needle against the uppermost of the gash. The point of the needle rested a mere hairbreadth away from Roy's exposed backside and flesh. She could feel his heartbeat pounding faster and faster against her cool palm. It was expected to be nervous. Roy had no way of knowing what exactly was going on behind him.

"I am sincerely sorry for what's about to come next."

"What are you talking abou—AGHHHH—WHAT IN THE FU—"

* * *

It started off as a sparring session as any other. After paying her respects to the fallen warriors of the Order, Fir knew that it would be essentially spitting on the graves of the deceased if she were to wallow in sadness. After bearing witness to their selfless sacrifices to save Askr, the only proper course of action was continue bearing the torch of the Order proudly and without fail. Still, the mood of Askr was dampened by the loss of so many, and gloom prevailed over its streets. Fir wanted to get her mind away from all the gloom and sorrow, something she could do to cut herself free from the enveloping sadness. She would not to let such emotions get ahold of her. Seeing the perfect alternative, she packed two wooden training swords to embark on her therapeutic escape.

The only problem she had was no one being available to spar with her.

Many had chosen to spend the day in silence and contemplation, her usual partners all politely turning her down. They did not feel like swinging a sword after such a day. The sad atmosphere had gotten to them and so she was left alone for the most part.

That is, until a certain red-headed lord came out of the blue to apologize for some strange reason. She was bewildered at first at Roy's sudden appearance, bowing and apologizing profusely, but quickly caught on. Fir remembered she tried persuading her uncle attend the grand funeral with her and suggested Lord Roy to tag along with her when she went to convince him, hoping that Roy's presence would give her the proper confidence to change his mind on the matter. But Lord Roy wasn't able to come with her for undisclosed reasons at the time and, consequently, she failed at changing her uncle's mind. He was always distant when it came to matters of the heart, and turned her away, just as he had during the first grand funeral many moons ago. So, Fir went to pay her respects alone, again without Roy.

But now here he was, almost on his knees before her, asking if there was anything he could to make up with her.

Fir couldn't believe her luck.

She needed someone to spar with and it so happened to be one of the most capable swordsman in the Order, and one of her closest companions. Uncle Karel was by far her superior but he would often get carried away in their training sessions, he would leave her arms completely numb and unable to move after a single bout, which was counterintuitive to the entire purpose of sparring. Lord Roy would be the perfect partner and he happily obliged.

She had sparred with him several times before already. Their first spar together was over within twenty seconds, with Roy's sword embedded in the bark of a nearby tree. But with every sparring session, Fir was finding it harder and harder to stay on top. What Lord Roy lacked in skill, he compensated with rigorous training and effort and their practice fights reflected this change. But Fir wouldn't shy away from such a challenge. She strove to be a better a swordswoman and every following fight would be an excellent test for her. The two had wandered deep into the heavily wooded forest of Verthand, to the west and far from camp to avoid causing a disturbance. Its thick trees hummed with mystical energy, untainted and unperturbed by the wars and conflicts of people. It gave her a strange sense of peace whenever she ventured into the thicket. Once they found a suitable clearing for their bout, the fight began.

While Lord Roy had major power behind his swings and a formidable offense, Fir was able to dance around his powerful attacks with her superior speed and nimble footwork. She wasted no energy in deflecting or parrying Roy's attacks as they would render her guard weakened if she tried being wholly defensive. Instead, she weaved around the heavy cleaves and arcing swings like a sparrow navigating through the thick brush, waiting for an opening in the barrage of attacks Roy would dispense.

In their many bouts before, Lord Roy would often leave himself vulnerable after committing to his powerful attacks, being easily punishable by Fir and her more precise, sharp attacks. While the two wielded identical weapons, their method of fighting couldn't be any more different. Roy's stance was like that of a frontline knight's, with honest, straightforward approaches while Fir's was more akin to the elegant fencers she saw guarding and practicing by Askr's capital, applying feints and mindgames into her offense, often confusing the enemy and pressuring them to react a certain way with her superior agility and needle-like swordplay.

But as time went on, her tricks and tactics were starting to be less effective against Roy. He was a fast learner and soon Fir have to develop an entirely new method of fighting to keep up with him. It made her excited that she finally found someone who could help her achieve her dream at becoming a fine swordswoman like her mother. And this fight wouldn't be any different.

It was perhaps their closest yet. Fir artfully avoided Roy's heavy attacks but had an incredibly hard time finding a hole she could exploit in his approach. His swings were no longer mere overhead cleaves of the novice he used to be. His attacks would no longer left him wide open, his footwork allowing him to quickly recover after dispensing an attack. He was getting more and more used to her fighting style and adapted his own to counteract it. Any attempts at attacking of her own, Roy would immediately parry and continue pressing his offense. It matched almost evenly against Fir's style

But it had a flaw.

Fir had begun to see that Roy was incredibly vigilant in his defense, immediately trying to bat away any swings that came his way, to compensate for his lack of speed. While he was getting quite fast in his own right, he was still nowhere near as fast as Fir. While others may have seen a formidable and unyielding wall in Roy's swordsmanship, Fir saw her golden opportunity. Knowing that Roy would launch a counterattack at any of her attempted thrusts, she switched sword hands and launched a feint from her left. Roy had anticipated the oncoming attack and extended his right arm to block the attack.

Just as she hoped.

With his sword arm reaching forward in an attempt to parry, Fir finally saw her chance to strike. Instead of fully committing to her left-angled swing, she gripped her hilt with both hands and brought it upwards, allowing the blade to climb from below like an uppercut, narrowly avoiding the opposing blade and landing what would have been fatal blow if it had been an actual duel against Roy's chest.

Roy reeled back from being attacked while Fir had smiled on with satisfaction. But what she didn't know at the time was that Roy didn't simply fall backwards from her attack.

A bear had intruded their bout.

And it was right behind her.

She remembered what happened next with perfect clarity. She felt an intense, near-nauseating heat and stench from behind her neck. And once she turned around, a towering mass of fur, muscle, and teeth was squaring her down. Instinctively, she leapt backwards to put some distance between her and the bear but it had closed the gap in a blink of an eye.

Once a mere three footsteps away, the bear had reared on its hindlegs to swings down with its might paws. Fir knew that bears could stay upright for long, and sensed that the bear would be put off balance if she were to strike it the moment it stood on its rear legs. Knowing this, she gripped her practice sword tightly and pushed forth with her own assault in an attempt to topple the massive beast.

She didn't know bears could ever get that mad.

Had she brought her real sword, the outcome would have been much different but the fact of the matter was she just tried taking on a fully-grown bear with nothing but a wooden practice sword. She would have had better luck even using the metal scabbard of her sword instead. The bear shrugged of the blow, roaring with annoyance from its prey, snapped the sword like a toothpick with a single swipe. Then, the bear stood up once again, its fearsome paws poised to swing at her.

She froze. With her attacks rendered useless, she didn't know what to do.

Had it not been for Roy, she may have well ended up dead.

He used his own body as a shield when he pushed her out of the bear's rampage. Even though it was a single swipe of the paw, it tore through Roy's outer armor and inner mail shirt as if they were made of paper. While heavily injured, Roy swiftly pivoted back onto his feet and scrambled to help Fir up onto her own.

They quickly realized the predicament they were in.

The direction the bear's back was facing was the way the two had come from. To their own back was a thick patch of trees and undergrowth that would be impossible to wade through while running from a fuming 1000-pound bear. They would have to run past the bear, outrun it, and weave their way back to camp past all trees. Although the trees that stood before them were less cluttered than the ones that lined behind, they were still jumbled close enough to make someone trip or lose their way. And Roy was in no such condition to be ducking and weaving around like she could. And although Roy continued to hold her behind him, Fir could see how deep the claw marks on his back went, and badly his wounds were bleeding. It would only be a matter of time until blood loss would exhaust him.

Yet Roy's face did not show despair. The fiery spirit in his eyes did not waver. Even in spite of his injuries Fir could feel the young noble's will and determination to overcome the obstacle that stood in his very path.

And he would not do it alone.

Unconsciously, he gripped Fir's trembling hand and held it tight. He glanced over his shoulder and met her eyes. No words needed to be said. Just from his expression alone, Fir could tell that he would get the two out of there no matter what.

That she could trust him.

The bear hadn't charged yet. It saw that its prey, although wounded, avoided its powerful strike and wouldn't be an easy kill. As such, it became much warier of the two that stood before it, its lead like eyes watching their every step and movement. It was waiting them out, waiting for them to make a sudden move. Then it would pounce, securing its kill and meal.

Fir could see that Roy had sensed this as well. Given the stench of fresh blood he gave off, the bear would most likely go for him first. He held Fir's hand tighter as he pulled her close.

"Run when I tell you to."

That was all he said.

The stand-off lasted for only another minute but it felt like an eternity. Fir's body broke into a cold sweat and began to ache at how still she was standing. Every bone in her body wanted to run but she couldn't afford to move or show anymore weakness before the bear. It would be like signing her own death sentence.

But the bear had grown impatient, having enough of this silent stare down. Letting out a heartstopping roar, it barreled forward, tearing out all the ground beneath its feet as it started its murderous rampage.

"Now!" Roy yelled.

Pulling her with him, he ran forward with all his might toward the bear. She felt her heart drop at his insane decision but her feet ran with him all the same.

When they were within swatting distance, Roy suddenly let go of Fir's hand and pushed her to the side, out of the bear's reach. His push wasn't enough to make her fall over but it was strong enough to keep her away from the bear's clawed paws that were still fresh with Roy's blood.

"Roy!" She had screamed as her legs still carried her away from the bear, its massive frame hiding Roy from her sight. What was the young lord thinking? Was he really about to sacrifice himself for her sake?

What Fir hadn't known until afterwards was that when Roy rushed forward toward the bear, he quickly picked up one of the broken ends of the wooden sword the bear had snapped. Due to the angle in which it broke, it had a sharpened end, sharp enough to inflict some actual damage. He had pushed Fir out of the way in order to drive all of the animal's attention on him. In his bleeding state, it would be suicide to take the bear head on and he knew this. But he needed the bear on its hindlegs and rushing towards it would achieve such a thing. With Fir away from danger, Roy charged the beast which had now reared back on two legs to swing down a powerful swipe.

This was Roy's chance.

Adopting Fir's own swift movements, he extended his arms forward and flattened his body. With great force, he leapt at a low angle towards the bear. With it standing up, he aimed for its two legs or rather, the gap between them.

The bear swiped at nothing. He dived cleanly through, with most of his body past and underneath the bear. And as the bear reeled in confusion, with all his might, Roy jammed the broken sword rear leg joint of the bear, piercing the tough fur and fat and lodging it into the bone, erupting a fountain of viscous blood and globules of fat all over him.

The bear howled in great pain as it lurched forward, its mind no longer on its prey but on the pointed intruder that had wedged itself into its joint, rendering its leg immobile. Using this opportunity to scramble back to his feet, Roy dash forward and out of the clearing, quickly grabbing an agape Fir's hand as they ran away from the beast.

Roy breathing was ragged, his face pale from the blood he had lost. Yet, an assured smile naturally spread across his face.

"I hope this will suffice as an apology?"

* * *

"There, all done. You took it better than expected."

"Mhrm. Yeah." Roy muttered through a clenched jaw and gritted teeth. Fir felt that if he bit down any further he would break his teeth.

"Do you have anything I could cut the tread with?" She asked.

"I would lend you the knife Matthew had given me." Roy managed to say. "But since the funeral, I couldn't find it… Matthew is going to kill me for losing such a valuable gift."

"It's bound to turn up sometime." Fir mused. "Hopefully before he returns from that secret mission he set off on."

"I hope so." Roy said. While Fir knew he and Matthew often butted heads, the two saw each other as brothers. Matthew had given Roy a prized knife as a memento and token to remember him by if anything were to happen. Fir had received something similar from her own father.

He had a swordsmith craft the finest blade she had ever laid her hands on. It was incredibly similar to her uncle's red Wo Dao but at the same time it was remarkably different. Instead of a crimson blade, her sword was interwoven with a blade of ashen silver that glistened like the sky on a starry night. Its guard was a lustrous black wood, laced with intricate carvings within a sea of charcoal clouds. Its grip was bound in sea-green wraps with two strands dangling like small dragons at the end.

Her mother's sword.

It was carved into her memory even though she had no recollection of ever being able to hold it with her own hands. The beautiful sister sword to the more sinister blade Karel carried.

It was the last thing he gave her before he disappeared.

Fir managed to cut the final thread on the stitch and soon tidied up the sewing. It wasn't the prettiest treatment in the world but it would result in the least amount of scarring on Roy's back. She opened a jar of soothing ointment and applied it around the fresh stitches that covered Roy's right shoulder and back. It should lessen the pain if not the subsequent itching that followed. Fir then unraveled the rest of the old bandages that lined Roy's upper body, throwing them into the fire before replacing them with a fresh roll.

"I think that should about do it." Fir exclaimed, satisfied with her handiwork and treatment. She hoped Roy would feel the same in his recovery. "If you have any discomfort feel free to come see me. I'll help you right away."

"Thank you, Fir." Roy said as he straightened out his back, stiff with pain. The muscles on his back would take time to heal but none of his vital organs and arteries were struck. With careful training and therapy, he would be back in shape in no time. If need be, Fir wanted to make sure that she would help him every step of the way.

Roy then chuckled, amused with something.

"What's wrong milord?" Fir asked, perplexed.

Roy just smiled. "No, it's nothing. But to think that a bear would be able to break through my armor like butter. Gods, that is one thing they don't teach you in the books."

"Probably because its self-explanatory." Fir replied snappily, cleaning up her medical supplies that were strewn out over a clean white tarp. "You'll probably want to see the armorsmith about getting that platemetal fixed, not to mention your cape as well…"

"I dunno." He said, smirking. "I feel that the whole damaged image gives me some character."

"I'd like to think it might make you look like a bum."

"… I haven't really thought this through, have I?"

The two laughed, in an effort to brush away all the built-up tension from the day. Roy motioned to the empty part of the stump next to him, inviting Fir to sit by his side. She obliged happily. Being next to him had always made her feel cozy. Noticing her happiness, Roy smiled back at her warmly, pulling her closer. She wished she could bask in Roy's warmth all day and night.

But as she was enveloped by his warmth, guilt began to bubble inside of her. She placed her irreplaceable in grave danger today, out of her selfish desire to overcome the gloom. Roy could have died, and with him all the warmth that comforted her now. It sickened Fir to her stomach.

But Roy was perceptive. Sensing something wrong, he shook her gently, peering into her eyes. "Is something the matter?"

She nodded, lowering her head. "I'm sorry.. about today..." Fir said, unable to match Roy's gaze. "I would have never—"

"Hey now." Roy said, abandoning his carefree mood as he straightened up as fast as he could. He put his hand over her trembling shoulder, gently rubbing it and her back to comfort her, easing her tension. Roy had always been kind to her, spoiling her with it. "Don't beat yourself for what happened out there. No one could have seen it coming."

"If I hadn't been so selfish, then—"

"Fir," Roy interrupted her. "What has happened has happened. Things could have gone better, believe me, I wish they had but there's nothing we can do. There's no use in crying over spoiled milk. But look on the bright side, we're still here."

"…"

"… You're still here."

She looked up at him, her lips trembling. Then, like a river, the tears came. She was never one to openly cry, even in the death of her comrades. Tears were a weakness, her uncle had told her, and so she was always used to holding her tears back for so long long, crying becoming something foreign to her. But now, as she was trying to be strong in front of Roy, his sincerity struck something in her heart, opening the dam. He pulled her in and embraced her tightly as the tears continued to flow, regardless of the hot pain that streaked across his backside.

* * *

"I-I was so scared…" She whispered, between her sobbing. "Scared that we… that I was going to lose someone… again."

Roy nodded as he tightened his arms around her. "There aren't many of us from the original group left after all…"

She only buried her face deeper into his chest. "When I saw you get hurt, I froze. I didn't want to lose you… but I could only stand and watch in fear…"

Roy couldn't say anything of course. A wise man did once say however that silence could convey what words fail.

"And when you charged that bear, I thought you were going to die." She sniffed. "I thought I was about to see another friend die in front of me."

"It's okay… it's okay." Roy assured her, embracing her, stroking her hair. "I'm still here… I'm right here with you."

Roy knew that sparring and duels were systems of training for Fir but that they were also her escape, a way for her to cope with the tempest inside her heart. The swing of a sword could express more than words could for her and the heat of battle helped her forget and ease into things. It was the medicine she needed to clear her heart and mind, but to have that, her salvation from the dark recesses of her heart, torn from her right in front of her eyes…

It must have been crushing her.

"Father... used to say the same thing…"

"What did he say?" He asked. Fir rarely talked about her father since the day he disappeared. Bartre was rowdy and boisterous man, who was the complete opposite of the usually demure Fir. Still, he loved his daughter greatly, and was overprotective even moreso. So, it broke her when Bartre disappeared like so many others that fateful day; it was the first time Roy had seen her cry. It was a sensitive topic that he never had the opportunity to broach with her.

"That he would be right here with me, by my side. And would always be…" Fir explained, in a quiet voice tinged with sadness.

The young lord thought that too. Bartre was not the type to abandon his flesh and blood. He was devoted to the well-being of his daughter, always. But as Roy recalled more about the man, he remembered a conversation he had with him, the night before he disappeared.

He came to Roy that night, his demeanor unlike anything Roy had seen before. He was forlorn and quiet, a complete departure from the wild man the Order was used to. Softly, under his breath, all Bartre said was that Roy had his blessing, and to watch over his daughter. Bewildered, Roy did not know how to answer. He could only nod, not truly thinking about the meaning behind Bartre's words, and the weight he was about to carry. He never had a chance to talk with Fir about it.

Roy, who had one arm wrapped the trembling swordswoman, used his free hand to wipe the tears that were slowly falling from her pretty face. His hands felt rough against her smooth skin.

She firmly gripped his hand as it trailed along her face, a slight tremble in her own, fearful of letting go, as if Roy might disappear if she did. "You're not going anywhere… right?"

He brushed strands of hair out of her tear-streaked cheeks, caressing her face gently as he said "Of course, Fir." Raising her chin gently, Roy stared deeply into her eyes as they twinkled like the stars in the sky. Her lips trembled for but a moment as they were soon pressed against his own, replacing the chill of the night with a warmth the two now desired from each other.

Fir wasn't a girl of many words. She mostly let her sword do the talking. Roy would feel the same way sometimes of course. The clash of steel can tell one things words cannot grasp. But now, it was different. Blades didn't need to clash. Swords weren't needed to reveal the truth behind what Bartre had said.

"I'll never leave your side."

Because now he had his answer.

* * *

 **(A/N):** **Wow, is this the first pairing? Who knows? As always, thanks for reading! Stay tuned for more!**

 **Cheers.**


	8. Chapter 8: Illusion of Choice

Potential Spoilers ahead. Read at your own discretion.

* * *

"I didn't think I'd end up seeing you at all today… Not this way at least."

"Me too." The cheery cleric smiled. "Accidents happen. We'll call this a happy one."

Before them lay a heap of papers and scrolls that were scattered like leaves in an autumn forest. With the setting sun and granite flooring, if one did not hurry and re-organize the stack of papers, they'd be sure to miss some in the fading light.

Yet Genny was in no such hurry. Instead, she sat next to Marth on the stonework steps leading to the undisclosed establishment Genny had been rushing out of with the papers, simply joyous at the fact that she able to see Marth up and about after being bed-ridden for so long. Marth's eyes lined the smiling healer's face. She knew that the young girl must have been tired, greatly more so than anyone else, after the grand funeral procession had concluded. However, fatigue was absent on her face and instead it beamed with energy. A testament to her will-power, Marth thought to herself.

While Marth had been thinking to herself, Genny had already brought a prepared tray of warm tea for the two of them to enjoy in the cooling air of the evening. She graciously took the warm concoction with both hands before indulging herself in its soothing embrace, its savory taste and perfect temperature soothing her burnt out nerves and body after a day full of more grueling surprises for her.

After a long sip, Marth let out a relaxed sigh as she set the near empty cup to rest on the stony steps she sat upon. The steps felt much more coarse and cold than that of the marbling she was familiar with that inhabited most of the lush capital. In the face of such pristineness, this building stood out like an unpolished sword, almost blemishing its surroundings. It also let out an ominous air, a feeling that had been so far absent in the warm and vibrant city.

"You're curious about the Crypts too, huh?" Genny quipped, following Marth's gaze. It was an obvious conclusion to arrive at given how the two suddenly greeted each other today not with hello's but with a shoulder to the chest after Marth unintentionally bumped into Genny as she rushed down from the building's steps, with building itself looming over the whole incident.

Marth had indeed been wandering around the city in a daze after the council meeting and she arrived unknowingly at an unfamiliar destination that came to a sudden halt after her crash with Genny and her tower of papers. The collision snapped her out of her thoughts and instantly brought her back to the here-and-now, and that was the mess she had inadvertently created. She apologized profusely and when she found it was Genny she had run into, she apologized two-fold. Genny had brushed off the whole thing with a heartfelt laugh that put Marth at ease.

"Is that what this place is called?" Marth asked, quizzically. "What were you doing in there?"

"If you consider the Library of Askr to contain the history of the many worlds and lives the heroes lead, you can consider the Crypts to be the figurative graveyard where those legends and tales come to rest."

It was a chilling precedent. "What do you mean?"

A sense of seriousness lined Genny's faced as she began to explain. "The Library offers history and hard facts that are irrefutable in regards to the heroes. The Crypts on the other hand houses secrets and knowledge that must not fall into unwary hands unless we'd want to bring the end of the world as we know it."

Marth didn't realize she had been holding her breath.

Then, Genny suddenly giggled and shook her head. "Don't take me seriously, silly. Of course it isn't like that. The Crypts are the Order's record-holders. Information about the present-day happenings and the like are stored here."

A feeling of relief flooded Marth. To have the idea that such a mysterious yet dangerous establishment lie under their very noses put her at unease. Then the feeling of unease came back to her as she stared long and hard at the scattered papers before her.

"Then these are…?"

"Documents that need to arrive for the Prince to inspect."

Marth cursed herself for clear lack of cautiousness and silently apologized to Alfonse in spirit, hoping that this sudden hiccup wouldn't cause him further problems after such a long and arduous day.

"Oh don't worry too much about Prince Alfonse." Genny said, with a calm air, sensing Marth's growing concern. "He won't be returning to his quarters until much later this evening."

Marth raised an eyebrow from beneath her mask. "How do you know that?"

"The Prince and his military entourage are holding inspections across the barracks today to make sure that his soldiers are in fine form after the funeral. It isn't really a formal inspection but the Prince wants to make sure that the soldiers of the Order are doing okay after our recent battles both physically and mentally."

The princess must never rest.

It was something she had grown up listening to.

Odd that she would remember such a thing now.

"Where did you hear of this?" Marth asked.

Genny shrugged with an innocent look on her face. "Word usually travels fast in the Order." She stirred her still steaming tea with a thin silver spoon. "… But it also helps that Matthew taught me a few tricks of the trade…" She giggled to herself.

"The trade?"

"Matthew is the captain of the Order's spy network." Genny explained. "If someone were to deliver a message or news, he would always hear about it first. Nothing would slip by without him knowing."

"And he taught you all that?"

Genny shook her head and motioned with her hand at the very notion of such an idea. "No, nothing as drastic as that."

"Then what was it?" Marth was curious.

"Rule one." Genny began. Then she flashed a mischievous grin. "Spies don't share secrets out loud."

Marth was stunned briefly. "But, this isn't really a secret, is it?"

"No." Genny said, amused. "But I just wanted to say it like he always would."

Marth smiled in response. Genny could be cheeky if she really wanted to but she knew that the young girl meant no real harm. It was clear that she wanted to have some fun after a long day herself. Marth knew the feeling well.

"Seems like you two were pretty close, what did he teach you?"

Genny shook her head and covered her face with her hands. Was she blushing? Was she trying to hide her embarrassment? It was an obvious reaction if Marth ever saw one. "We aren't anything serious but I can't deny that Matthew is… well, charming… but he's a tad bit too young for me."

"Wh—"

"ANYWAY!" Genny exclaimed. It helped that the sun was setting. Her face a fine shade of crimson. "He did teach me an important skill."

Marth's interest was now piqued as well, forgetting about Genny interrupting her before she got a word in edgewise. "And what would that be?"

Genny made a fantastic motion with her hands, her arms arcing far and wide.

As far as the petite cleric could, at least.

She shrunk her voice to a whisper and stared at Marth with a fierce glare equivalent to that of a small puppy dog.

"Listening to people."

Again, Marth was stunned.

"Don't take it lightly!" Genny protested, "Listening and even speaking with others is a valuable skill and asset that helps tremendously!"

Marth tried to stifle her rising laughter.

"Just like how I know that you are completely at a loss right now and don't know what to do."

The ball of laughter that had curled up in her throat withered up and died.

"How do you—?"

"Throughout this entire conversation, everything that you have talked about was directed at something other than yourself." Genny reported, like a soldier. "You wanted to direct the conversation in a way that wouldn't lead me to inquire about you or what you had been up to ever since you got up for the first time this morning."

Marth was at a complete loss of words as she stared at her nearly invisible hands. The large sleeves of Ephraim's cloak had covered up most them. She still hadn't taken it off nor did she make an attempt at all to find more suitable clothes. In fact, the very thought slipped from her mind ever since Prince Alfonse had revealed to her an irreversible truth.

You can't go home.

How long has it been since he told her that? Marth couldn't remember. Then again, she had a hard time remembering things ever since she arrived in Askr.  
Her memory would come back in bits and pieces but never in full. She had a lot of time to contemplate on what those scraps of memories meant in her aimless wanderings after the council meeting but it proved to be a fruitless task. Her memory still remained fuzzy and rough. The more she tried to recall, the less she would inevitably remember. She was still broken, inside and out, not whole, and even the current state of her body reflected that.

"So Marth. Am I right or am I right?"

Marth couldn't do much except nod.

"Don't underestimate what a simple action like listening can bear." Genny instructed her, one hand pointing at her as a teacher would and the other hand holding her tea.

"And Marth," Genny added. "I want you to confide in me. Not as a patient but as a friend. Don't bottle up your problems, you can tell me. If you've got any worries, don't hesitate to talk with me. I'm here for you." She reached on and put her warm hand on Marth's. She could tell that Genny was being serious.

Marth managed to put up a weak smile. "Okay Genny."

"So now…"

Marth eyes remained fixed on the cleric, who was still full of surprises.

"What are your worries? I'm ready to listen."

* * *

Marth's solution in regards to her memories lay northwestward of Askr. It didn't help that the answer to her woes lay in a heap of rubble as well, beyond the walls of the capital, crumbling away to dust.

The gate to her world, her one-way ticket back home, back to where things would make sense again for her, even if it was in its own twisted way, was destroyed. Beyond repair.

It's not that she was unwilling to fight for the Order and its cause. Marth had listened to Genny and the mini history lesson she gave.

Askr and Embla were two separate kingdoms that were raised when the goddess of this world blessed to individuals to be their rulers. Askr, while much in need of guidance, was blessed with bountiful lands to make up for their shortcomings. Embla on the other hand, while gifted with great talent, was subjected to the harsh environment of its surrounding lands. Askr worked its lands to overcome its lackings while Embla prevailed over the trials that befell its lands.

But seeing as how the two kingdoms may one day seek conquest after one another, the goddess devised a pact that would ensure the two would remain in harmony.

The power to open gates to other worlds and the power to close them.

Askr was blessed with the power to open the gates and Embla had been chosen to have the power to close them. With this, every gate that Askr opened, Embla would also be able to reap the rewards as well and have the final say in whether to leave a gate open or not. And with thus, peace was established between two once incompatible kingdoms. With this peace, the two kingdoms withstood the Age of Strife, a time where beings of pure, malevolent magic were rampant in the lands. But with their peace and unification, Askr and Embla persisted through those two thousand years.

But that peace was to be broken.

Taking advantage of the blessings they had, Embla used the goddess's gift for their own gain and sought more power by deciding to conquer the kingdom to their south, Askr.

And in the time of King Domeric, Alfonse's father, the War of Heroes began, leaving the lands of Zenith ravaged by the horrors and atrocities of war and conflict. The Order of Heroes remained as the final bastion that stood between Embla and the fall of Askr. Every hero that was summoned by Kiran played a vital part in Askr's victory and survival against her more powerful enemy.

Every hero counted.

That meant Marth as well.

There was a lot to take in.

It also didn't help that Marth state of mind wasn't exactly in the best it could have been in. She already had a hard time recalling things, having this huge exposition drop on her was like adding fuel to the ever-growing fire. Ironically, the most solid piece she was able to recall of her own memory was the hellish nightmare that had in fact started the day.

The blazing fire, the clawing hands, the mourning voices, she could remember every second of it with perfect clarity. How could she forget? Even now she could still feel the slight burning of the flames eating away at her skin and flesh.

She'd rather forget it all.

Genny had caught onto Marth's silence of course, nothing escapes her watchful eye. Marth attempted to brush her off initially, not wanting to tell the busy cleric another item she would inevitably have to write down in her ever-growing list of problems to tend to. Marth didn't want to have to constantly depend on Genny but Genny would have none of it. She was sharp when it came to these things and nearly demanded Marth to tell her what was eating away at her.

Marth explained what had transpired throughout the day, she owed Genny that much. From the nightmare, to the morning, to the funeral, to meeting Lord Ephraim, to the council meeting, to her wanderings, Marth divulged as much information as she could remember at the moment.

Once she had finished her long monologue, Genny sat quietly for a moment before asking her what was really bothering her. Was it really the fact that she couldn't go home or the fact that she had no choice in whatever she inevitably chose? Marth still hadn't arrived to a conclusion on her own.

There were so many things that still didn't make sense to her. Why was she summoned? What was her purpose here? Was it so important as tear her away from her old world?

It was all in the air and the fact that Marth couldn't do anything to get a concrete answer for any of those concerns troubled her. When still under the impression that her passage home was still open, her mind was at least in a state of ease. But with that comfort no longer there to provide for her, everything else seemed so bleak.

It was like wandering in a desert and arrive at an oasis to only find out that it was an illusion, a mirage, all along.

In the end, she was to make a choice, that's what Alfonse and the Order desired out of her.

But there really wasn't any other choice to make except fight for the Order.

Could she really be content with that?

Could that really be called choosing?

She brought those concerns to Genny who wasted no time in responding.

"You always have a choice." Genny had told her. "It doesn't matter what you think or feel. You are the master of your own thinking and decisions. Don't let your circumstances sway or tell you otherwise."

The words, while comforting, did not change how she really felt inside.

She heard the plight of Askr and now, with the Order practically begging her to join, she would feel guilt at thinking otherwise. But she simply couldn't take that step forward. It was one thing to fight in the war with purpose but for her, what would her purpose in fighting be?

What could she possibly hope for in fighting in this conflict?

Marth had been wandering again, letting her listless feet take her wherever they want.

It had been hours since she left Genny. Strangely, she had ended up far from the capital, north beyond the walls, and in a quiet, grassy area. There were low signs of life, with the nearest encampment seemingly miles away. The moon had taken over the sky by now, its light hummed, casting softly onto Marth's untouched and wooded surroundings. When she walked slightly further, she came across what seemed to be an abandoned barnhouse.

Its wooden planks were rotting away with the whole building in a dire state of disrepair. The wooden fencing around the area was also in a poor state but given that it was no longer in use, it wasn't a point of concern anymore. She wandered close to the barn and fell to her knees before the looming tree that sat alone in the field. She slowly sprawled out on the cool grass, her body unwilling to carry her any further. Her eyes fluttered shut.

Everything was quiet. The wind blew softly and the usual bugs and critters of the night no longer occupied the night air. Marth was alone.

At least, that's what she thought.

"You actually came."

She bolted awake. Her body had almost succumbed to sleep but the voice that called out to her pulled her out of slumber's grasp. She looked around but saw no one. There was only grass as far as the eye could see.

"Up here."

The thought of checking the tree had eluded her.

Looking up, she saw a lone lancer leaning comfortably against the aged bark of the tree, sitting on one of the higher branches. Without hesitation, he leapt down from his great height and effortlessly landed before her, his cape flowing behind him like a comet's tail.

"I thought after hearing what Alfonse had told you, you'd run away from it all but here you are, out of your own volition" The lord asked him, his silky voice ringing in the quiet night air. It was a stark difference from the impression he had left in the council chamber. He looked straight at her. "Or am I wrong?"

Even though she had so much to say to him before, her voice eluded her. Was it her fatigue catching up to her or the surprising nature of the whole turn of events?

Ephraim eyed her carefully, his hawk-like eyes glistening in the moonlight, missing not an inch of detail.

Marth still looked like a wreck. The coat she wore had become disheveled and covered in a fine layer of dust as she had trudged through the grassy fields and dusty roads. She was slouched in her stance and her legs gave a slight tremble.

"Remove your mask."

"Wh-what?" Marth finally managed to say, exasperated at the man's sudden request. She knew that Ephraim had already seen her without her mask but having deliberately order to take it off was something different. She hesitated, her gloved hands resting inches away from her face.

"I must see your eyes." He demanded, iron in his tone. There was no reasoning with him. Even with mask intact, his eyes still bore holes in her own.

With shaky hands, she removed the butterfly-shaped piece of steel that hid her secret. She prayed that no one else would see her. The breeze of the night sky hit her face for the first time in quiet some time. Even still, Ephraim stared at her, long and hard, his gaze piercing into her eyes like needles. His brows furrowed.

"So it is true," Ephraim mused, folding his heavily bound arms. "I know that face."

Marth made no effort to put the mask back on lest Ephraim ordered to take it off again. She laid her hidden face bear for the uninhabited world before her to see. Marth simply waited silently as she stood through Ephraim's examination.

"You're riddled with doubt, aren't you?"

Marth didn't say anything.

"So you aren't going to even deny the possibility." Ephraim scoffed as he turned from her and sat at the base of the tree. Even sitting down, he seemed to tower before her. "What happened to that vigor earlier?"

"I…" Marth stuttered, finding her voice. "I didn't know that the gate to Ylisse had been destroyed."

"So what?" Ephraim spat. "Now that you can't go home, all of a sudden you want to abandon ship and give up? Is that it? Even after that whole speech you gave me, you're just going to drop everything?"

"That gate gave me hope that one day I would have answers as to why I had been called here to fight!" Marth yelled in response, her pent-up feelings coming to burst. "The very idea that I could one day return home assured me that I was still in charge of how I was to press forward. That one day, my memories would come back to me and things would make sense. But now, all that's gone! I now don't have any reason to fight in this war, I never did to begin with! I was torn from my world and thrust into a war between to kingdoms whose problems don't even come close to…"

She trailed off. She couldn't remember.

In the face of her ramblings, Ephraim maintained a cool air, not giving into Marth's provocation. He raised himself gracefully for the tree he had been leaning against.

"So what you're telling me is that this all isn't fair."

"That isn't—" Marth protested.

"No, to me it sounds like a child crying to the world how unfair circumstances have treated her and how now she doesn't know what to do because the world that she once thought was fair no longer is." The lancer growled. "Isn't that what you've been on about? About how you no longer have a choice?"

Marth didn't like the way Ephraim explained everything so frankly but as much as his words hurt, they bore a certain truth to them. She did feel as if what had happened to her was unjust. She did feel that her choices really did feel unfair. She felt like a prisoner.

"Do you think you're the only one with problems Marth?" the young lord added. "Do you think you are the only person in this world, in all the worlds, that was faced with an unfair situation? Do you think a second goes by where someone doesn't have to commit themselves to an unsavory path? Because if you are, you're living in a delusion."

Marth bit her lip and said nothing else.

"Do you think that everyone that is here is fighting because they want to? No, the fight isn't what is important. It's what comes afterwards. They aren't thinking about what is immediately in front of them. They are fighting because there is something greater, something bigger, than that of their own petty concerns."

"Are you calling my problems a mere child's problem?" Marth yelled, her inner self no longer able to bear Ephraim's verbal attacks. "Do you even know what I've had to do back in Ylisse?"

"What you had to do before you arrived has nothing to do with what I'm trying to tell you." Ephraim retorted, matter-of-factly. "Face it Marth. You are not the only one here that wants to return home. Do you think anyone would willingly give up being by their loved one's sides to fight in another war, that they could actually die in, for a kingdom they have no relation to? No, these heroes are fighting because they want to realize their goal of returning home one day and in order to do that, they have to confront the problem that stands before them whether they want to or not. Sitting around, cursing their fortune does nothing."

Marth gritted her teeth. "But those people had the liberty to choose what they wanted to do. Their passage home wasn't destroyed!"

"Then end the war and find your way home!" Ephraim barked, his tone harsh. "If you have time to complain, then you have to time to fight and find your way back!"

Marth had nothing to say to that. She knew he was right but something in her heart refused to give in.

An uneasiness silence creeped into the midnight air as the moon stood forebodingly over the two warriors.

"You cried that you have no choice." Ephraim proclaimed, turning his back to her. "But you do. Here." He tossed a hard object towards Marth.

Instinctively, she caught the metallic object in her hands with ease. Even though her body may have been exhausted, her reflexes were still sharp. Upon closer inspection, she saw that it was the knife Ephraim had taken from her earlier. Its sharp edge glistened in the moonlight.

"There's the choice I'm giving you."

Marth held the cold blade in her hands.

"End your life. If you're really dead-set on not wanting to fight, you could always just end it for yourself, here and now. No one will find out and your woes will end. You won't feel the guilt anymore at having to decide. That blade you hold could answer all your problems."

Marth was quiet for a moment. "But I will never return home…"

"You wanted a choice." Ephraim said coldly. "I'm giving you one."

She held the foreign weapon in her hand. Could she really do it? Could she kill herself? In that moment, there was something alluring about the choice she had been given. Death. It seemed final, the great end to all ends. Once she stepped down that path, there would be no return but nothing would follow after her. If nothing else, it truly was a passage out of this mess she had found herself in.

But that would also mean abandoning all those who helped her along the way. It meant being unable to repay all the people who treated her with kindness in her lone hours. It also meant abandoning the one chance she may have in finding her way back home. She held it closely to her exposed throat, the razor-sharp edge resting mere inches away, her hands trembling.

Then she broke.

She tossed the knife away, silent tears rolling down her face.

She couldn't do it.

How could she have possibly even considered this as an alternative?

"Then the matter's been settled." Ephraim said, a sudden wave of calm entering his voice. Had he been concerned with what Marth's decision was going to be? Marth didn't have to process anything at the moment. "There may be hope for you yet."

Marth could only stare at him, noting his shift in demeanor. His expression had gotten softer and he no longer bore acid in his voice. Her eyes beckoned for an explanation.

Ephraim stood before her. "You told me that you wanted me to make you a hero. I don't make promises I don't intend to keep."

The weathered lord then picked her up, not by her hands but by lifting her up entirely, her body feeling fragile and small in his arms. It was as if her own strength had left her and a strange warmness filled her once more. Was she glad that she didn't end her own life? He set her down by wooden crates as he began to pitch a tent.

Marth sat quietly as Ephraim went about on his task. No words were spoken. Only the rustling of tarp and squeals of rope were filling the midnight air. To Marth, it seemed that Ephraim had forseen the conclusion to their argument, given that he had prepared a shelter in advance.

"I was wrong about you today. About what you were" Ephraim said, amidst his labor. "But I think I'm beginning to know now..."

Marth shifted her gaze back to the man as his own was absorbed in his current task, his hands working at a feverish pace.

"What are you saying?" She managed to say.

Ephraim tugged on a length of rope before he turned to face her. His face, tinged with bitterness but also remorse.

"That you are just like me."

* * *

 **(A/N): Thanks for reading! I hope you're enjoying the story thus far. I know I'm having a blast writing it. All words are appreciated!**

 **Thanks!**

 **Cheers.**


	9. Chapter 9: Beyond Reach

**(A/N): Hey guys. Here's another chapter. Please enjoy.**

 **Potential spoilers ahead. Read at your own discretion**

* * *

"Are you sure you are ready to do this?"

"In time, I'll have my answer."

Alfonse gazed warily at the lone swordswoman that stood before him. It had been six weeks since the fateful revelation and now she stood before him, unyielding, ready to push forward. The stiffness she once had in her movements seemed nonexistent and the doubt that once plagued her seemed to have melted away. She glided about with a mysterious air now, one that spoke not of her intentions nor her destination.

It was as if she became someone else, a complete blank slate.

But she wasn't without blemishes.

Bruises, varying in all sorts of shades, lined her body like splotches of paint in avant-garde art piece. Her arms, her legs, her torso, even her face wasn't devoid of injuries. Pain had seemed to become her constant companion. What she had gone through, Alfonse would never know but whatever it was caused the hesitation that permeated from her to vanish.

She wasn't the Marth that had first arrived in Askr anymore.

She was something more.

Or, perhaps, had she become something less?

"Understand that once you step into the Tears of Spirits, there is no turning back." Alfonse reminded her. "You may have recited your Vows at the Temple of Silence but know this. You are spiritbound to your resolve and will be unable to break that contract of your own will until your death or your victory once you do this. Do you understand what I am saying, Marth?"

"I do." The masked warrior said without hesitation.

Alfonse nodded silently. The Hero's Vows were a serious ceremony that was commenced when inducting a Hero into the Order. It was held in secrecy, with only Askrian royalty and a select few being allowed to attend. A hero would strip themselves of their previous attachments and offer themselves in a crystalline pool called the Tears of Spirits that lay deep in the heart of Askr that would constitute as binding a contract to their soul.

It was the final trial a hero would have to face in their journey before the real journey began, a final test to their will and determination. It was as stated, once a hero had tasted the waters of the Spirit's Tears, their lives would be bound to whatever cause they were to serve.

Alfonse had never seen the shrine that below with his own eyes but instead had seen what it would do to those who delved into its depths.

This was an ancient ritual that had only been recently discovered since the Order's research into Breidablik. It was still relatively unknown but its power was potent. Its instructions were present in ancient texts that dated centuries ago. This wasn't a rite that was concocted on a whim.

It was planned.

Perhaps the silent goddess used this as a test to judge and deem a select few worthy. Or maybe it was a trial to test one's loyalty.

But for what exactly, Alfonse could not guess.

Alfonse approached the large boulder that guarded to the sacred shrine that lay below. Next to it lay a smoothed-out stone entrenched on a pedestal. What outsiders wouldn't know is that the stone was actually a rune that reacted when it came into contact with someone that had the blood of Askr running through their veins, a person from the blood of royals. It would then open passage to the shrine for the hero to conquer their final trial.

Alfonse removed his metal-padded glove and placed his bare hand on the smooth platform. It soon began to glow with an otherworldly blue and hummed vibrantly with energy. The large immovable stone began to roll away, resigning from its place of guardianship.

A dark, almost foreboding tunnel loomed before him. Alfonse could feel the dampness and cold that emanated from it even though he was at a distance from it. He looked over at Marth who showed no sign of hesitation and gave a confirming nod.

Marth nodded back, her now shortened hair resting gingerly above her mask. She took a deep breath before marching down the cold tunnel.

Not a second sooner, the boulder rolled back into place behind her.

Now, all that was left was Marth's resolve.

Alfonse prayed to the silent goddess that the last forty days would have been enough.

* * *

"What is it that you want me to do, Lord Ephraim?"

"Strike me. Don't hold back."

Marth was dumbfounded.

The young lord had brought into a mild clearing in a grassy field a ways distance from the abandoned barnhouse they now resided by. It had been a rather uneventful second day thus far. Despite how much he had told her that fateful night, he still remained an arm's reach away from Marth, both in position and as a person.

He hadn't slept in the same tent as her of course. The tent was tailored to house on individual and Marth had been the one to use it. When she had asked Ephraim where he was going to retire, he gave a rather straightforward answer:

"Outside."

And outside he stayed.

The first day had been a cold and nearly lethal one. Marth had woken up to a world that was drenched with water. It rained without ceasing all day. Grown worried, Marth peered out from the flaps of her dry shelter and saw that Lord Ephraim remained kneeled beneath the giant tree that loomed over the dilapidated barn with his back to her. He made no effort to seek shelter elsewhere, whether it may be in the barn or the tent Marth was in. The tree actually, with its great many branches and leaves, provided an excellent roof that kept most of the water out but Marth hadn't noticed this at first.

Without even making an effort to clothe herself properly, Marth ran out into the rain towards the lone lord. Once her bare skin was exposed to the air where cold had dominated, she instantly regretted her decision. She had kept her leggings on but she left the cloak Ephraim had lent her back in the tent, but her upper body wore close to nothing beside the heavy number of bandages that were bound around her. Still, she pressed on and stood next to Ephraim, who remained a silent as ever but still dry from the cascade beyond the tree's protection.

Not knowing what else to do, Marth sat beside him, through the rain and cold. She wondered if perhaps he was testing her but his lack of communication made her think otherwise. And the two sat by the tree, with the mighty branches of aged wood shielding them from the waterfall of rain that fell from the sky, for hours.

Hunger, chills, and a screaming soreness eventually came to be in Marth's still recovering body. She was no way equipped nor suited for such an endeavor and no matter how hard she pressed on with her body, it was showing signs of giving up in such harsh conditions. Eventually, she blacked out from the sheer amount of stress her body was put under.

After an undisclosed amount of time, the rain had ceased and Ephraim had carried her back to her tent and this time stoked a small fire by it. A raging fever had awoken in her body and she would wake up in short bursts before losing consciousness. It was perhaps foolish of her to expose herself to the elements like she had. Even in her lapses of consciousness she questioned her actions.

But before long, Ephraim poured a warm brew down her throat as she was floating in and out of consciousness. Strangely, it immediately cooled her body from its furnace like temperature and set her at much more comfortable one, one that allowed her to breathe easy and no longer ached her muscles. Soon, she fell into a dreamless sleep, letting her beaten body rest.

Her muscles no longer ached and her limbs felt supple. The feeling of rejuvenation that had eluded her for so long had finally come to rest in her bones. She was beginning to feel more like herself again.

"What are you waiting for? Come at me."

And yet here was Lord Ephraim, instructing her to attack him with the wooden sword he had handed to her. Was this another test, Marth couldn't tell.

"Are you asking me to fight you?" Marth asked, puzzled.

The lord raised his eyebrow. "Have you never trained before?"

"But…" She was hesitant. Not because of her body's capabilities. She was actually feeling than she had ever had been ever since she arrived in Zenith. Whatever it was that Ephraim made her drink really helped her. What caused her pause was Lord Ephraim himself. She had seen his prowess on the Field of Fire, she had seen him dismantle almost an entire shock cavalry brigade by himself.

She had seen the powers that rested in the hands of that lord and his fearsome lance.

And now he was asking her to come at him with all that she had?

There had to have been a catch.

"The day will end if you dither any longer." The lord goaded, beckoning her forth with his hand. "Come now."

Marth steeled herself. The lord was being serious. "If you insist." She raised her wooden blade and slowly approached the seemingly vulnerable lord.

He left himself wide open to attacks but that was not the impression Marth got. There had to be a reason to his utter confidence and lack of caution and Marth paid close attention to that. Every step she took towards him left him unfazed.

When Marth was no more than five steps away, she launched her attack. Taking advantage of her current condition, she took the lord head on per his request with a low angled slash for the left.

Her attack hit air.

Ephraim had side stepped the well angled attack with ease.

She continued her assault, this time with a stab. A slash could be telegraphed and avoided but a stab would be harder to predict and avoid.

In a blink of an eye, Ephraim weaved around the wooden blade, his sea-green hair flaring over the wooden shaft of the practice sword. Immediately, he counterattacked Marth with a solid blow to her chest with an open palm.

It knocked the air out of her lungs as she fell to a knee from the pure impact of the blow, her sword clattered to the side.

"You're cautious, I'll give you that." Ephraim said, as he paced around her. "But you think too much."

"How can I not?" Marth wheezed, hand tightly grasping at her heaving chest. "You're telling me to attack you out of nowhere."

"It's because you're scared." Ephraim said, deadpan in expression. "You cloud your mind with a million thoughts not to push away your fears but because you are riddled with them. And that's all it is. You think because you are too afraid to act."

Marth slowly rose. "So you're telling me to enter a fight without a plan?"

Ephraim shook his head as he brushed off the dust that had collected at his shoulder. "A plan is one that is thought out and carried out in equal measure. You had no plan in the last two swings. There was no long term thinking in your offense. All you were thinking about was your opponent and not thinking on how to beat him."

Marth swung an underhanded low-sweeping attack at Ephraim.

Scoffing, the lord stomped his boot down on the face of the wooden sword's blade, bringing Marth's hand down hard to the ground with it.

"You lack will." Ephraim said, unsmiling, as he looked upon Marth's pained expression while his boot grinded against her hand that was pinned to the ground. "And not simply as a fighter but as a person. What are you fighting for Marth?"

Marth quickly shot out her left leg, swinging it around towards Ephraim's own as it stood above her sword hand.

He nimbly evaded the kick but that allowed Marth to free her hand. She rolled back to her feet.

"That's what I want to know." Marth growled, clenching her raw fist around the wooden hilt tightly.

"Then I'll give you a purpose." Ephraim said as he unfastened his tattered cape, freeing his mobility even further.

"Strike me." He said bluntly. "If any one of your attacks can hit me, you win."

Marth readied her stance, the dirt shifting beneath her feet.

"But until you do, this fight will never end."

* * *

Marth marched down the damp and dark cavern passage. There was a dim light that emanated from far beyond the end of the long, stretching tunnel. It shone with a soft blue light, giving the feeling that the cave was submerged beneath the waters. The air was far from sticky despite the dampness, in fact it even felt a bit cold. With every step, Marth felt that she was stepping deeper and deeper into the chilling waters of lake.

Left right. Left right.

More steps forward.

It hurt.

Everything hurt.

From her finger tips to her feet, every inch of her body screamed at her.

But it told her that she was alive.

Lord Ephraim's words rang louder now than before.

"Use your pain. Let it move you forward."

Left right. Left right.

She was about halfway down now.

As Marth strode forth, her empty scabbard battered against her thigh, its metal fasteners jangling in the silent cave. She had grown used to the pain of it coming in contact with her raw and injured body, and the coolness of the cave helped further soothe the aches that reverberated with every movement she made.

Her heart beat at a steady rate, Ephraim made sure of that during their arduous training. She was beginning to learn how to be in more control of herself in spite of her circumstances. She had to ignore the pain that streaked across her body. She had to conquer the fears that pounded in her head.

She had to let go of her doubts.

Left right. Left right.

It was easier said than done.

* * *

"You lack sense and focus. You have no will."

Ephraim batted her swing away with ease with nothing but his palm. He didn't even need to rely on the practice spear that he had behind his back. It was something akin to a quarterstaff, a weapon with no sharp end but an equally powerful weapon all-around. What it lacked in cutting ability, it made up for in pure bludgeoning and force.

How many times had she passed out now? She lost count after the fifth time. The sun had set and rose again plenty of times afterwards but their fight had not yet ended. She no longer felt hunger or thirst. Just the pain of the great many wounds that afflicted her and were etched across her battered body. But they fueled her. The pain kept her moving.

It gave her purpose.

Marth leapt back a several steps as she regained her stance. She gripped her wooden practice sword tightly.

Even now, swords still felt unnatural in her hands. Even if she were to position and time herself with every strike, she wouldn't be able to react fast enough.

Every parry, every swing, every counterattack, every movement seemed to move at a clip slower than she had wanted it to.

Ephraim stepped forward.

She swung a two-handed attack at the young man.

He wasn't even fazed.

He had gripped the blade with his bandaged hand mid-swing and closed the gap between them instantaneously.

With the force of a bull, he charged Marth down, knock her off her feet and tumbling into the dirt.

"What happened to becoming a hero?" Ephraim goaded her on.

Using the sword as a crutch, Marth tried to raise herself up. Ephraim however had other plans and knocked aside the wooden blade with a swift kick. Marth toppled back into the ground face first as dust was sent flying about everywhere, the wooden sword cluttering to a stop from a distance.

"… I never asked for any of this…" Marth muttered, as she crawled in the dirt. It was a pitiful sight.

But Ephraim showed no pity.

He kicked her hard that had rolling in the dust gasping for air.

"It doesn't matter what you asked for." Ephraim spat as he set his boot on her back, rendering her immobile. "This is the hand that you have been dealt with. This is the fate that lies before you."

Marth couldn't respond, both verbally or physically. She gritted her teeth as shallow tears welled in the corners of her eyes. She clenched her fists so hard the blood had begun to pool in her hands. The unsettling realization of her own weakness had returned.

She was helpless.

She was powerless.

"So what are you doing on the floor, crying?"

Even if she tried pulling herself up, Ephraim's foot kept her down. It was if a large boulder rested atop her badly beaten back.

"If this is what your will amounts to, you can have back the knife." Ephraim stabbed. "You're going to end up having someone carve a piece out of you, might as well let that person be yourself."

"That… isn't my path." Marth managed to say, spitting out the blood that had gathered in her mouth.

But she wasn't hopeless.

Mustering all the strength she had, she pushed herself away from the foot that had her pinned down. It hurt terribly as the boot tore at her skin as she rolled away but now she was no longer grounded.

Weakly, on uneasy knees, she stood up.

Ephraim had an unsettling smile on his face, one that would cut into one's soul if they were to stare it for too long. He pulled free the staff he had been holding back for so long.

"You may survive one battle yet." He quipped.

Marth had no time to find her sword. She would have to improvise. She hadn't been clenching her hands in the dirt for nothing. In spite of her bleeding palms, she gripped a handful of sand that she could use as a momentary distraction. It may be nothing to a monster of a fighter like Lord Ephraim but it was better than having nothing. Even if she were to gain only a second of an opening, she would be thankful. Every second counted in this fight, the bout—nay, her entire future—depended on it. She tightened her grasp around the watery sand.

"I already lived past one Lord Ephraim." She snapped back, steadying herself.

"And the swordswoman lives." Ephraim retorted, inching closer, staff in hand. "But for how long?"

His hand rested at about the middle of the staff. The entire staff was about a good 8 feet long. It would be able to close any gap of that distance in no time at all, cutting off many of her options of approach.

She wouldn't be able to simply toss the sand at Ephraim with reckless abandon. That would be making her only trump card invalid. He would be able to react in no time, given their distance, and be able to counterattack instantly. Time her attack wrong and her one chance would be forever lost.

She stood still as patient as she could. The lancer lord did the same.

The two had a stare down that seemed slow time itself.

Marth then moved first.

She dashed to the right, which was towards the left side of Ephraim. She needed to bait out an attack from him.

The beauty about staff weapons is that they have a flexibility many swords don't have. Swords have generally one purpose and that is to hack and slash at the foe. As such, its path was a predictable one that followed an easily telegraphed trajectory. A master of the blade would know how to react to an oncoming sword swing appropriately.

Staves on the other hand have two methods of approach. There is the predictable swing that too follows its shortened brethren's movements. But instead of simple slashes, a spear or a staff can attack straightaway by stabbing. Instead of following an arc, it could attack from a point. Swords were used to cut down foes, spears were used to riddle them with countless holes.

Ephraim, knowing that a swing would be easily counteracted, chose to jab his staff's blunt end toward the oncoming Marth.

But Marth had been prepared for this. She didn't receive days after days' worth of beatings and punishments for no reason.

When the stab came forward, she wrapped her left arm around the quarterstaff and held as hard as she could. And before Ephraim could react, she tossed the sand in his eyes.

For a moment, the young lord was bewildered as he took a step back.

But that was all Marth needed.

Wheeling towards Ephraim's backside, she began to aim at the back of his knees. Their bout, ever since the first fight, had a rule that if Marth were to knock Ephraim down at least once, even down to one of his knees, he would concede the victory to her.

That was easier said than done of course and the injuries on her bodies told no lies.

This time, for sure, she would at least bring him down a knee. Generating as much force as she could, she aimed a swift kicked to the joint.

But instead of her sharp heel cutting into the lord's leg, a wall like fist greeted her face head on.

Ephraim had swung a hammer fisted punch that circled behind him and rammed his target dead on. Marth was catapulted off of her feet and was thrown into a grassy patch that did little to soften the impact.

Back to the ground, her body lay limp, her muscles refusing her orders.

The blow was so strong that her vision had become distorted and faded.

How? She thought to herself as darkness began to creep along the corners of her eyes. How was Ephraim able to react so perfectly?

The moment played before her eyes once more. She had stepped forward, anticipating an attack from the lancer. And as expected, Ephraim responded with lunge attack. She recalled the she wrapped her arm around the staff before she tossed the sand into his face. Then she dashed towards his back to prepare in delivering the final blow before she was deflected by a solid blow to the head. She remembered each bit with perfect lucidity. Every movement was still felt in her bones.

Then it hit her.

She never let go of Ephraim's staff.

With her running around, staff in hand, it would be basically tracing over the lancer's body as to where she was running. As such, it would be easy to retaliate.

Another amateur mistake.

She would receive another earful from Ephraim.

She saw a looming shadow appear before as her consciousness was on its last legs.

She didn't want her last memory of the moment to be riddled with ridicule.

She braced herself as he consciousness wavered.

"You did well."

Then she passed out.

* * *

A body of water as large as the fountain in the town square of Askr greeted her as Marth reached the end of the tunnel, it waters gleaming with an otherworldly light and radiating with a strange energy. To the opposite side of the pool a beam of light had laid its rest above a statue of a shrouded maiden before what appeared to be an altar, holding a planted sword before her and an open hand, as if she were reaching out, beckoning someone to take ahold. With the way the light shimmered, it almost appeared as though the statue were actually moving.

Marth remembered the many faces and sculptures she had seen erected at the Front Gate and along the windows of the Askrian throne room.

This was not one of them.

A great many gemstones and raw ore lined the walls of the enclosed shrine, reflecting a bombardment of various colors throughout. The light from the pool allowed the many crystals to shine, albeit softly.

Marth inched forward to the edge of the waters, her reflection shone back at her.

She was a mess.

If any of the Council Members had seen her now, they wouldn't need to think twice before agreeing with Mauder's sentiments.

Her hair had been haphazardly cut short, her once flowing blue locks being replaced rough patches of short hair. If anything, she would no longer need to tend to her hair to hide her identity, she already appeared like she always had been. That would mean she would no longer have to beat herself up over with doing her hair like Severa had taught her to. Maybe Gerome now would worry less about she kept her appearance with her mask.

Gerome? Severa?

Names rang in her ears and pieces of her memory floated mockingly at the precipice of her thoughts.

But that was all they were.

Pieces.

She was nowhere near piecing herself back together.

Marth removed the light vest she had been wearing off of her shoulders and also took off the undershirt which's length rested lightly above her heavily scarred abdomen. Her fingers grazed the wounds that bore her body, the jolts of pain still ripe. How Marth had received these burns and scars, she did not remember but she felt for certain these injuries were inflicted before she came to Askr.

She didn't know why she came to think that way but a feeling in the back of her mind kept telling her so.

Marth then tended to removing her leggings and boots next, carefully making sure not come in contact with her many bruises that covered most of her sore lower body. The grueling training had taken its toll on her body. It surprised Marth how well she had acclimated.

Finally freeing her toned legs and lower half, Marth started to unbind the wraps around her chest. Had this been any other moment, she would be teeming with embarrassment, even by her lonesome, at her modest bosom, but now all she could feel was the chill that encroached her body and the sparks of pain that shot up across her body. Before long, the wraps had become undone.

She stepped forward to the pool, looking one last time at her reflection.

It was like staring at a stranger.

The person who stood before her, the one who no longer had long hair, the one who was covered in countless scars and injuries. The person who left her own world, the person who was taking up arms to fight in someone else's fight.

The one who had removed the mask.

Was this really her?

But before doubts could resettle back in her mind, Marth took a step into the pool's waters, shattering the image that stared back at her. Now wasn't the time to get caught up in her thoughts. All the time she had spent readying herself for this moment, it would be for naught if she had second thoughts.

The waters reached up to her waist and climbed up further still. The pool was deceptively deeper than it appeared. Its waters, despite its chill, kept pulling Marth in, to walk closer and closer into its center where the light seemed to be the brightest.

Before she could realize, she was fully submerged.

There was no longer any light that lit her path. Frantically looking for the surface, Marth darted back and forth to find a breach. But with water's murky waters, she could distinguish which way led to the surface and which way led further below the water's depths.

She wouldn't be able to hold her breath for much longer, her lungs crying to her with the absence air. Panic had begun to set in. She clawed and kicked and moved about, still holding onto the hope that she could find her way out of the waters but it was a futile endeavor. The water pried at her mouth, as if trying to force water down into her pounding lungs.

Her demise seemed near but even in spite of that her body refused to succumb to the waters. It was a miracle she had even lasted so long thus far.

Even if she wanted to pass out, something kept pulling her awake. Even if she wanted to lay still and let the waters overtake her, her body was unwilling.

She wanted to overcome this.

It didn't matter if she no longer recognized herself. It didn't matter if she couldn't remember who she was.

She wanted to—nay, she had to—live.

If it meant that she would matter.

She had to.

* * *

Marth felt the evening breeze whip through her newly exposed neck after her messy attempt at a haircut. Setting the charcoal knife down on the rotting stump by the fire, she wrapped the ill-fitting vest she had procured around herself, trying to trap the warmth of the fire inside of her away from the biting chill. Shuffling her feet, she scooted closer to the fire. Out here in the countryside, it seemed to get colder than back at the capital. Or perhaps it was because she was foregoing the luxuries she was previously living off of.

She was miles away from the nearest establishment. She wandered much farther than she had thought when she was wandering listlessly after the council meeting. That was over 25 days ago and Marth had started to lose count. She had been living off what she could scour off of the various abandoned small villages that were littered along the edge of Askr, all of them in a similar state as the barn where she was staying at with Ephraim. What happened here, she would never know for sure but the impact of the War of Heroes definitely caused this.

She looked up at her lone shadow dancing along the walls of the dilapidated barn, trying to imagine whose else's shadows danced along those walls, whose voices filled the now cold air with laughter, joy, and warmth, whose lives revolved around this very barn.

Whose lives and warmth were now extinguished.

…

It reminded her of own world.

"Hand me the knife."

Turning over her shoulder, Marth saw Ephraim emerge from the darkness of the forest, a large deer over his shoulder. The deer must have weighed easily more than he did but he carried it like a sack of rice. With little to no effort, he set down the freshly killed animal on the laid-out plank he had her set before he left hours prior. There was a gaping hole in its neck, a clear wound that ended its life after the long hunt. Without further ado, Marth handed the dark knife to the busy lord who immediately began gutting and flaying the animal to prepare their evening supper.

Early on, Marth had made the mistake of gorging herself with rabbit meat after a long sparring session. Before long, she was curled over a hastily dug hole vomiting her insides out like no tomorrow. Ephraim had told her to never indulge an empty stomach after training afterwards. Even though the rabbit meat was very plainly cooked, it was still much too rich for the near withered stomach Marth had carried after her long battle.

"No rabbits today?" Marth asked, trying to strike up a conversation after being by her lonesome for so long. Unintentionally, she began to rub her stomach, recollecting how she nearly threw it up days before.

"You can't sustain yourself with just rabbit meat alone." Ephraim said, his eyes glued to the steaming carcass of the deer as he unwound the intestines from within. He was rather meticulous about the whole procedure, not wanting to waste even a single scrap of meat or piece of hide. With the knife in his hands, he cut through the flesh of deer like cutting through butter. "Rabbits have little to no fat on their bodies, given they need to outrun their prey. Living off of rabbit meat alone will kill you."

Marth kept her eyes on Ephraim's swift hands as he quickly transformed the deer from once a magnificent creature to a grotesque piece of art that would eventually fill their stomachs. "How do you know all this?"

"Wandering for decades will do that to you." Ephraim said bluntly, taking a moment to wipe the drop of blood that found its way to his cheek.

Marth wasn't sure she had heard correctly. Decades? "But you look almost as young as Prince Alfonse."

Ephraim set the knife down to his side as he turned the deer's body over. "I still haven't figured why… Perhaps…"

His hands went idle, his eyes closed, deep in thought. Then he quickly resumed his task. "No use dwelling on it now."

Marth inched closer to him. "What do you mean? Did something happen?"

Ephraim laughed, but it wasn't a hearty laugh. It was full of spite, and even perhaps anger. "Did something happen? Nay, I happened. I was a little lordling who thought he had the entire world wrapped around his little finger. And that old tale wound me up here."

"You were summoned."

He shook his head and picked up the knife once more.

"Then how—"

The knife began its dance along the deer's hide. "I still wonder why myself." Ephraim muttered, his knife strokes becoming more savage-like, tearing away at the skin of the deer rather than cutting. "How could a no-good cursed sister killer like me wind up in a place like—"

Ephraim stopped mid-stroke. He looked up at Marth and chuckled to himself, seeing her pale face. "There's the look. Have you forgotten who I was? Who you came to?"

"You're Lord Ephraim." Marth said, almost in a whisper, as if she didn't want to hear the words she recollected herself. "The Scourge."

"That's right. I'm the Scourge. The Scourge of Renais. The blight of all of Magvel. The one who ended the life of his dear sister with his own hands…" He proclaimed, as if he were inviting the world to listen in on his self-declaration. He turned away from the deer and stared straight at her. "Why did you seek my help?"

There it was. The soul piercing gaze that would send shards of ice into her heart.

"I—I…" Marth began to say. "I don't know…But something. Something drew me to you… it felt like instinct."

"If you keep following that instinct of yours, you're going to wind up in an early grave." Ephraim muttered. He then said something peculiar. "You may wear a mask to hide to become someone else but from what I've seen, people wear masks to fully embrace who they really are. Our fickle hearts are on full display once they have been veiled by something so simple."

Marth unintentionally touched her mask, the one thing that kept her secret from the world. Were his words true? Did the mask change who she really was? Or had she really been this way, from the beginning? The very thought of her cowardly nature from before appalled her. But what about Lord Ephraim? He didn't wear a mask nor did he need one. But what was he hiding behind?

"Then why didn't you refuse me?" Marth asked. "You had seen what I truly thought of this situation. And I hadn't promised you anything. Why did you not send me away?"

Ephraim fell silent for the first time since their coming together.

"You told me yourself. That I was in fact more like you. That I wasn't the hero that you and I ought I should be. You—"

"Because you still remind me of someone I knew."

Marth was taken aback. There was no hostility in Ephraim's words nor was there the sardonic air that had nearly grown commonplace in his voice. Because he really was being genuine. Because his eyes told the story.

One of loss.

One of deep regret.

She needn't ask more. Ephraim, for all his faults and past mistakes, still kept fighting. For a man who was fabled to have killed his sister, he clearly hadn't given up on his own life yet, even if he had tried many times before. Was this his attempt at redemption for his past crimes? A way to seek atonement from himself for himself? Marth knew from experience that nothing would really wash away the stains left behind and yet here he was.

He was stronger in more ways than one and stronger than she would ever be.

Was that why she was drawn to him?

Because she too was like him?

Because she perhaps wanted to be like him?

"You loved this person, didn't you?"

Ephraim remained silent.

"Was it her? That one statue by the Front Gate. The Restoration Lady?"

A dark expression flashed on his face and tumult swirled in his eyes. But only for a moment.

He then resumed flaying the deer.

"No."

* * *

Ephraim hadn't spoken to her much afterwards. Even after supper, the lord quietly marched off back into the forest, out of sight. There were no signs of him returning either. Marth grew worried. Had she again said something insensitive to another hero, if she could call Ephraim that in the first place?

No, he was one.

She hadn't seen such anguish on his face before. And this was only when she brought up the woman who stood silently by the gates of Askr, encased in marble, eternally trapped in where she stood. What did she mean to Ephraim? Marth remembered overhearing from soldiers that a lone figure would be seen during the early hours of dawn standing before a certain statue within the Front Gate. No words could be heard. Just the songs of silence. Whenever anyone came near to inspect closely, the figure would disappear from sight, only deepening the mystery of the individual. It was obvious who it was now.

Why was Ephraim so adamant about seeing the statue face to face? Why would he without fail go see the statue almost every morning? Marth remembered Ephraim's face when she mentioned the woman's title.

But how could it be that she was still so important to him?

Marth couldn't quite understand what she was feeling at the moment. Was she feeling this way because she was genuinely worried about the man who had taken her under his tutelage? Or could this be envy? Envious in that this statue meant more to Ephraim that she ever would. But why would such a feeling have taken root? How could it have? There was no reason for it to.

That's what she began telling herself.

And it worked.

But beautiful lies only persist for so long.

* * *

Gasping for air, her head broke through the surface. With wild, frenetic hands that clung to dear life, she clawed her way beyond the waters and reached what felt like wet sand beneath her.

She had reached a shore of some kind.

Kicking with all her might, she burrowed past the soil beneath her and soon made it out of the water's grasp. She had reached land at last.

The mere thought of her survival was so significant, Marth didn't realize the strangeness of the entire situation.

That is, until he spoke.

"So you're alive, princess."

Marth's blood ran cold and the joy of being alive warped away instantly. Raising her head, she saw a towering figure that stood before her.

But it wasn't someone she knew.

He was clad in dark armor, with portions of his pauldron swinging outwards, like the wings of a large raven. To further add to his mysterious appearance, he bore a golden mask that glistened in the moonlight that was interwoven with pieces of dark steel. She had never seen the man before in her life yet he seemed to know who she was.

She opened her mouth to speak but found that her body no longer responded to her. A freezing stiffness began to spread across her bare body as it lay on the shore.

"I didn't think you would actually survive. I had come to retrieve your body but this is a surprise. You're still breathing and in one piece."

Recover her body? Marth already didn't like the surprise visit and she didn't like the way the man spoke of her, as if she were something akin to a disposable tool. It ran more chills down her spine than what the temperature could. Struggling, she tried to speak.

"Wh-who…"

"Don't bother knowing who I am." The man said, adjusting his mask. "For the next time we meet, it shall be as enemies."

He looked up toward the looming moon.

"My time grows short. I have to hurry."

He then quickly reached down to her and wrapped his cape around her, drying her quickly and shielding her naked body from the approaching cold now that her adrenaline had begun to wear off.

"The fact that you still live means that the seal has not been broken." The man spoke cryptically, to nobody in particular. "It means the Order still has a chance. If they don't find out that is…"

"Are you going to kill me?" Marth finally spoke.

The man shook his head, his silver hair swaying about.

"I'm saving your life."

"Why…?"

The man then lifted her and began to march away at a swift pace, keeping Marth bundled within the cape he had wrapped around her.

"You may not understand the gravity of the situation with the fact that you're even still alive, so I'll be brief."

Marth careened her stiff head to get a better glimpse of the man as he continued racing down the unpaved and unknown road.

"The goddess has rejected you."

* * *

 **Author's Note: Oof. This was the longest chapter by far. My fingers were burnt out after finishing this. But I hope you enjoyed. Thanks for reading.**

 **Cheers.**


	10. Xenologue 1: The Princess and the Knight

Potential spoilers ahead. Read at your own discretion.

* * *

Storms clouds began to roll before the many shards that adorned the grand stained window of the palace, engulfing the capital city in a looming darkness and impending storm. The lit candles that lined the interior of the throne room offered little respite from the shadow that was cast over the daunting castle, whose walls seemed to climb ever so high into the clouds. The lone girl that sat on the ornate seat of the king had grown accustomed to such storms, they were as frequent as the incomplete moon that rose in the night sky. In fact, the girl relished times of quiet and solitude as these ever since she ascended the throne many a season ago. Moments like such, where the flickering of the candlelight and the patter of the rain were her only companion, allowed her to escape from the clasp of court life and responsibilities, if even only for a while. With her back to the rest of the castle, and her worries, she basked within the gloomy world the storm had brought before her.

Then, the throne hall's doors irritatingly croaked open, with echoing footsteps following suit, breaking the silence and atmosphere the princess had grown so fond of.

"I thought I had made it clear that all reports were to be brought to me after the storm passes." She barked, her voice like a rippling gale in spite of her elfin stature, a common illusion she had to break every now and then to subordinates that failed her instruction.

"I have returned princess."

This soothing voice.

This catharsis she felt.

It had to be.

Swiveling the throne away from the giant glass, she turned from her little world and gasped with delight as she quickly raced down the throne steps and into the arms that had bowed before her.

"You've returned Xander!" She exclaimed as she burrowed her face into the knight's chest in a childlike manner that befit her appearance. While the armor got in the way and felt cold against her cheek, it mattered not for the Emblian crown princess. The warmth she had been longing for had returned.

"I'm sorry for not having returned sooner milady." The normally stern knight said, with a warm smile spreading across his face as the girl resumed her childish antics. "While returning from the Gates of Tellius, we received report of a sizeable band of rogues encroaching on our rear guard."

"Was it your retainer's troupe? The masked maniacs or what have you?"

Xander shook his head. "The Masquerade." He corrected her. "And no. Ever since he abandoned us, he and his band of mercenaries always operate far from us. He knows our strength and knows full well it would be suicide to attack us outright in the hit-and-runs he's notorious for."

"Then who were these attackers?"

"We do not know as of yet." Xander explained. "Their colors are unidentifiable and they refuse to speak. Chances are they are Askrian rogues and Emblian defectors. Their methods of attack were viciously similar."

"And what of Bruno?"

He shook his head. "The last time he was seen he was riding off towards the south. None of our scout have been able to intercept his location."

"I'm sure that he'll return like he always has." Veronica then put her small, cold hand on the knight's cheek, a parent would a caress a child's. "You weren't hurt, were you?"

Xander gently rest his armored hand on her own. "Of course not. While General Reinhardt was wounded in the attack, the perpetrators have been swiftly dealt with, save for a lone straggler who managed to flee into the Marsh. Fret not, milady. If our search parties don't get to him, his wounds will."

"Thank the goddess you're alright." Veronica whispered, as if in an act of reassuring herself further.

"I rode on ahead of the convoy to see you before the sun set." Xander stood up from the foyer and took in the darkness that had permeated into the throne room. "Were you planning on spending the rest of your day in here, princess?"

"If it means that I can have you all to myself, then I'll gladly bar all the doors…" Veronica began. "But I'll abstain from doing so. I still remember how much of a scolding I got from you the last time I suggested doing something so unbecoming…"

Xander smiled. "It pleases me to hear that you're readily taking my advice to heart milady."

Veronica paced around the foyer upon light steps for a moment, swallowed in thought.

"You mentioned that Sir Reinhardt was injured while dealing with the brigands, yes?" She asked momentarily before resuming her thoughts.

"Nothing to lose sleep over." Xander replied, nodding. "However, the general may have to refrain from field work to recover fully I'm afraid."

"A ruler must care and look after the well-being of her subjects…" Veronica said aloud, to no one in particular. "That's what you told me…"

"I remember that as clear as day milady. It was after our forces had just returned from the Vaskrheim siege."

"And I still remember that a good bulk of our rider division failed to return." Veronica muttered, her hands rolling into fists with her eyes glued towards the knight. "You almost didn't return."

"Princess."

"All because of that bastard of a lord that chased you down and that blasted tactician of his—"

"Do not concern yourself with what has happened already again, little princess." Xander said firmly, gripping the small girl by her shoulders as a father would when reprimanding his child. "I know how much that mission meant to you and as it did for the late King Viktor. But don't dwell on what has come to pass. Keep your head up and chin high."

She bit her lip.

"Look for what you can do with the now. Concern yourself with those remain and still draw breath, not of the ones who laid down theirs. The living deserve our attention now. We can mourn for whom we have lost when the time comes. Until then, we must keep pressing onward little princess. Only then can we move forward."

Veronica looked up at the stoic knight that had opened up to her the day her father failed to return from the Battle of Vaskrheim. He was the one who delivered the news of her father's death after all. When she had felt lost, Xander was there to set the path for her right again. She gazed into the hardened eyes of a warrior as they softened before hers. Unbeknownst to the girl, her hand came to rest atop his own as they still firmly, yet gently, held her shoulders.

"There's that name again…" Veronica said softly. "Little princess… You would always catch yourself when those words touched your lips. Yet this is the first time you've called me that with full intent."

"Walk by me princess."

Veronica silently agreed as the knight pulled open the hidden door that led outside the throne room. It was a secret her father had shown her while he still sat upon the throne. It led to a stairway that would curl downward to the canals below the castle where a small boat would be ready for a king or a princess to escape the castle if even for a moment, carrying its passengers along the waterway that sprawled along the capital of Embla.

The wind seemed to die down immediately after being greeted by her very presence. The gusts from before were like mere whispers now as the storm calmed yet still brewed. Xander boarded the gondola and held Veronica's hand as she boarded the small, yet lavish, rowboat. The knight quickly took the helm and led the vessel into the calm and quiet waters of the Emblian night. Out here too, Veronica felt at peace, especially in the presence of her trusted advisor.

And perhaps her only true friend.

"Why have you brought me out here, Xander?" She asked, as calm as the waters that whisked past that wooden bow of the boat.

"You've always asked me why I stayed in Zenith. And yet, after all these years, I have refused to give you a proper answer." Xander began, still pushing the boat along with the long staff that it had come with.

Veronica sat silently, the small boat rocking her gently back and forth.

"But perhaps now you deserve to know."

The Emblian princess peered down at the knight's reflection that was poised gallantly upon the waters.

"I once had a great many siblings." He began. "Each unique and special in their own way. Perhaps you've heard of some of them from your studies."

Veronica nodded. "I remember them from the stories you used to tell me. Like the one about your brother who had a bad habit of dressing himself improperly or your sister who was perhaps as terrifying as you are on the battlefield."

He chuckled. "You still remembered after all this time."

Veronica beamed with pride.

"But there were others too." Xander said, his voice turning somber. "Others whose names have been forever lost to history's pages. Names and faces only I know. Names and faces only I will remember. Lives that I will have to carry on my back until my time draws to an end."

"You did mention that your father had many concubines." Veronica added.

He nodded. "For better or for worse, I had grown up surrounded by countless brothers and sisters, some who looked to me with envy. And others whose eyes were like knives that stabbed at me every chance they got."

Veronica said nothing. She had heard something similar from her own elder brother growing up.

How people would never accept him as the rightful heir.

How he nothing but a bastard to the Emblian line.

"But among them, there was someone special." Xander spoke. "Someone who wasn't like the others. Someone who clung to life. Someone who held it desperately between their two feeble hands."

"Was this another one of your half-siblings?"

He shook his head. "She was a fugitive from an enemy kingdom whom we had taken into our own family and raised as our own."

"A fugitive?" Veronica asked, puzzled. "But why would you do such a thing? She was a part of the enemy."

"She was but a mere child when she came to us, numbed by shock and forgetting who she even was." Xander said in response. "She was to be a token of war and nothing more. When we no longer had any need of her, she was to be disposed of like the other children that did not survive. But when I saw her, enveloped in such pity and eyes begging for help, I had to defy my father for the first time in my life."

"What did you do?"

"I raised her and treated her like one of our own." Xander responded. "Ironic, I know, given my circumstances, but I could not abandon her. And soon, my other siblings began to treat her the same way and recognized her as a part of our family which only grew smaller by the day… Little did I know that the little princess I had saved would be the start of everything."

Little princess.

"So why is that you, until now, have not spoken those words?"

Xander shut his eyes and in doing so the boat had crawled to a halt.

"We had come so close… So close to changing Nohr. But that was not to be."

Never had Veronica seen such a distraught look on the usually completely composed knight's face.

"In our final battle," Xander began after a long pause. "She fell victim to blade wielded by the monster my father had become. Without her to wield the sacred blade Yato, all was lost. My siblings did all we could to quell the evil that had consumed our father but to no avail."

"What happened to them?" Veronica asked.

"They stayed behind to guard our escape." Xander quietly said as he resumed his rowing. "They gave their lives to make sure I found a way to save hers. And I tried. I tried everything I could possibly do. Everything in my power to make sure their deaths would not be in vain. From one world to the next. And yet no healer, sage, and scholar could ever rid her of the festering wound that seeped across her body like a virulent poison. Fate had it that no matter what I did, she would die. But in spite of that, I kept searching. For anything. A cure perhaps. Or even something that would ease her suffering. But it was all for naught."

Veronica needn't ask. She knew where this was headed.

"She should have died back in Nohr like the hero she was destined to be… But instead, by my selfishness, she perished in my arms, a shell of her former self. A husk of the little princess I had raised and was unceremoniously buried in a watery grave, like a dog, in a world far from home where her name was lost and meant nothing, and her deeds fell upon deaf ears… I had destroyed the life and legacy of the little princess I swore to protect."

"…"

"After what seemed like an eternity, King Viktor, your father, found me."

Veronica slightly jumped at the sudden mentioning of her father's name. Despite being her father, the man was always beyond her reach. And just when he finally began to open up to her, he never came back home, his body gone like the ashes in the wind along with Veronica's hopes of truly knowing the man whom she called father.

"He offered me a choice. To continue my wanderings into oblivion or serve under him with a blood contract in exchange for the thing I desired most."

"And what was that?" Veronica asked although she already knew the answer.

"To serve under my little princess once more. To make sure that as long as I draw breath she needn't suffer."

Veronica sat quietly as the boat drifted further down the waterway, passing the many buildings that lined the aqueducts.

"But that would go unfulfilled." Xander said abruptly. "The day your father perished at Vaskrheim, I felt myself being thrown again into a pit of despair once more. It was as if I had lost my sister once again."

"You could have left."

Xander gazed at her sadly.

"The contract that bound you to my father broke the day he was killed. And that went for all the heroes he brought under his reign. You could have left like all the others… and I've never asked you this before but why didn't you? Why didn't you leave to see your wish fulfilled elsewhere?"

"Because I saw you."

Veronica felt her voice getting caught up in her throat.

"I seriously had considered leaving Zenith with the contract no longer binding me to this world. I even had arrived at the throne room to give up the sword I had been wielding in Embla's name…" Xander recollected. "But there you were, a mere child, with the weight of the world on your shoulders, as you lay crying alone in the empty throne room with no one but the cold embrace of death to keep you company… a kindred spirit."

Veronica remembered that very day with perfect clarity. The messenger bearing the news of her father's army's annihilation. The death of her father. The passing of the crown to her. In that moment, she wanted nothing more than someone, anyone, to be by her side, to pick up her broken self.

"Just like how it was before, there was no way I could leave you, someone who so desperately sought for a reason to live, behind."

And the man responsible for who she was today stood before her, silently rowing the boat as it gently drifted into the evening air.

"Tell me something Xander." Veronica said, her voice like a whisper.

"Anything milady."

"If I had told you that I could grant your wish, what would you do?"

It was a question that rested on her mind ever since Xander brought up his motive in fighting for her father. It was the same with all the other heroes Embla had brought into her service. They all had a regret they wished to amend and would do anything, even if it meant fighting in a war, to wipe away their sins.

She asked the question with perfect delivery but her heart wavered. What would Xander, the man who was more of a father to her than her real father ever was, say? Would he abandon their relationship and leave? Would he finish the war and depart? Would he leave her behind for someone more important to him? In all the time that Veronica knew the knight, she knew that if he had set his mind on something, he wouldn't hesitate in the slightest in carrying his will out. This was one of the reasons as to why he had gained notoriety both in Embla and Askr. In the light of such news, what would he do?

Xander simply smiled.

"But little princess, you already have."

Veronica's eyes widened with shock as she met Xander's gaze that looked upon her tenderly. It took everything inside the Emblian princess to not leap up and wrap her arms around the knight.

"What has happened has already come to pass." Xander said, quoting his advice to her from before. "Let those who sleep lie in their slumber."

He approached her as much as he could on their small boat and unsheathed his sword. Bending his knee and planting the sword before him he said, "Today, I wish to reaffirm my service to Embla and pledge my blade and my life to you, little princess, once more under a blood contract… That is, if you would have me."

Veronica knew the incantations by heart, she had seen it countless times. She reached out and rested her hand atop the knight's gold and black blade.

"And I Princess Veronica of Embla offer you a place by my side, till the end of time, till the end of you and I."

A soft light radiated and Xander's sword hummed with a mysterious energy as their contract had been sealed. Veronica felt a surge of energy rush through her veins as her body began to pulsate now that the two had become truly one. This was her first blood contract.

And the only one she would ever need.

"My blade and spirit will forever be yours, little princess."

Veronica would have embrace him if she didn't feel so unsteady on her feet. She had seen the ritual performed by her father countless times before but to do it herself was an entirely different manner.

"Before, back in the throne room," Veronica said, as she unsteadily sat back down while Xander commandeered the boat once more. "You advised me to care for the well-being of my people."

"That I did, milady."

"I think I'll take that advice to heart as well." Veronica said, with a soft smile on her face. She stretched her hand outward into the evening air. "Take me to the men who returned from the field. I shall personally greet them all."

"And that would be most pleasing to them." Xander said, an approving smile spread across his face. "The soldiers will need the boost in morale."

"How long till we arrive?" Veronica asked.

"We're already here."

Like magic, Veronica saw that the boat had indeed arrived at the pier where the soldiers would be eventually stationed at. She saw that a sizeable division of the force had arrived already and set up camp. When the soldiers saw her, they greeted her with warmly from the shore.

Veronica tugged on the knight's arm as he readied the boat for its anchoring.

"What is it milady?"

"I'm still learning about… all this Xander." Veronica said, her face glowing red. "There is still so much I do not know and so much I have yet to learn. If you could continue advising and teaching me… I…"

She wrapped her hands around his arms.

The knight led her by the arm.

"It would be my honor, little princess."

* * *

 **(A/N):** I've always wanted to do a chapter for the Emblian side for the longest time, especially a chapter on Veronica as a character. I want to craft her beyond what IS has given us, beyond the simple motives of "oh no, I'm so lonely" because the girl really has potential. Ever since I started writing, I wanted to explore more about them and flesh them out, not as simple villains, but as characters that occupy the same world as the heroes we are so familiar with. IS has been progressing their story quite a bit but I want to take mine in a different direction so if you ever see something that directly conflicts with what we know in-game, sorry.

But that's why I have decided to name this chapter a Xenologue instead of the more traditional chapter layout. Since Fire Emblem loves throwing that word around a lot as of late, I thought I would try my hand at it. Hope it works.

Anyway, thanks for reading.

Cheers.


	11. Chapter 10: Lie into the Night

**Potential Spoilers ahead. Read at you own discretion**

* * *

"If King Viktor's fate was any indication, I would have presumed that a member of Emblian nobility would be far more cautious than this."

"If it were not urgent, I wouldn't be acting so recklessly."

It was the pitch of night. Ever since mysterious masked man had drawn her from the depths of the waters, Marth had been carried on horseback way into the night, far from anywhere remotely familiar to her. She had been living away from the luxuries of the capital cities and camps, subsisting off of what she and Ephraim had been catching in vast expanse of abandoned towns and remote areas. In spite of that, none of what she had seen so far was even the slightest familiar.

And that felt like hours prior. Now, she sat behind her mysterious savior atop his mount, her arms doing the best they could in holding onto the man's back as she was still only shielded by the cloak he had covered her with. Her body may have been fatigued but her senses remained heightened as she immediately focused on absorbing all that she could make out in the darkness.

They had arrived at a clearing in the grove they rode through, an expanded patch of dirt and grass that escaped the clutches of the thick trees and branches that stood menacingly in the darkness only several footsteps away. The moon rested high above the sky, a good indicator that it was well past midnight. It was also noticeably warmer than the cavernous shrine she had barely escaped from as the man had noted.

And now a voice that was foreign spoke out to the masked horseman, who was regarded as Emblian royalty.

Emblian royalty? Why would a member of the enemy partake in saving her life? The life of an enemy soldier?

"Then have at you. What could possibly be so urgent that you would ride into enemy territory in the dead of night and seek an audience with the tactician of the enemy army?"

Peeking over the broad shoulders of the silver-haired horseman, Marth could faintly make out a figure hooded in white who also arrived on horseback that stood across from them at the opposite end of the clearing. From the moonlight, she saw familiar symbols and embroideries that lined the figure's clothing.

There was only one person who could have gotten about wearing such an outlandish outfit.

"Quick to business as always Kiran." The Emblian noble said. "Just as how ruthless you are on the battlefield."

The man that stood opposite of them, Kiran, was Askr's lead tactician. And Marth still knew little about the man beneath the robes. She only remembered bits and pieces, and in her current state, those bits and pieces were even more miniscule. However, in spite of the man's smaller frame in comparison to the other heroes that were a part of the order, the aura he carried demanded respect. Marth could feel the weight behind the man's gaze alone without even making eye contact with him.

"We don't have long until the Order realizes that I am gone." Kiran spoke, his hood still obscuring most of his face. It seems this was a gathering of individuals who guarded their appearances from wary eyes. "Save the flattery for another time."

The masked noble nodded. "Then I'll be brief. You must head to the World of Tellius."

Marth could tell from Kiran's body language that he hadn't expected such a peculiar request from the man. "Tellius? You mean the world where the Radiant Hero hails from?"

"Indeed."

Kiran folded his arms, one hand still clutching the reins of his horse. "The World of Tellius is the only world so far to resist any form of outside control, whether it be Askr or Embla. From what I remember, your forces have failed time and time again in bringing the Radiant Hero over to your side. Perhaps your forces are weaker than anticipated?"

"Do not forget that the envoy you sent with Lyndis still has yet to return from that world." The masked man snapped. "Perhaps your judgment is less sound than respected?"

Marth saw that the masked man's words visibly shook the tactician. Marth knew the reputation of the hooded tactician preceded himself, brining countless victory after victory to Askr in spite of their weakened state. But being reminded of such a failure in times like these must have been a hard blow on the man as she saw his fist clench harder around his horse's reins. It whinnied in response.

"So tell me Prince Bruno," Kiran growled. "What do we have to gain from listening to your advice? The last time we listened, we nearly lost everything at Vaskrheim."

Prince. The crown prince of Embla had been the one that saved her?

"Do you remember the secret weapon Embla had been nurturing the last time we spoke?" Bruno replied in a grave voice. "The one responsible for destroying the Gates of Valentia and Ylisse?"

A weapon that was responsible for destroying her passage home? Marth couldn't believe her ears. As it turned out, she wasn't the only one in shock as she looked towards Kiran and saw that the hand that clutched the leather straps of the horse's reins tightly before instantly loosened its grip out of shock.

"Could it be..?"

The prince only nodded. "It's close to being perfected. It is to be tested one last time, this time upon the warriors of Tellius. Time grows short for us both if the Radiant Hero falls and if such power reaches its final form. If the weapon is perfected, the Order will fall. And so will Askr."

"Then what should we do?" Kiran asked, his voice deadpan. Marth could tell that the man had already begun formulating a plan. It was a pose and aura she had seen and felt so many times before in the past. So much so in fact that she felt as though she were looking back upon a scene from her memory. But Marth reminded herself how impossible that would have been.

"If the weapon is used," the masked prince said. "All of Tellius is lost. The gate will be inevitably destroyed and you will lose all those who might one day take your side. Go to Tellius and seek the Radiant Hero's help. With him, you may stand a chance against the things yet to come."

"Then what of Tellius?"

Bruno paused for a moment. Even though he held his back to her, Marth could feel the distress that was coursing through the man's veins.

"It is to be annihilated. And there is nothing you can do about it. Not even I can stop all of Embla's strategists."

"Why tell us this?" Kiran asked. "If I were in your place, I wouldn't relay such vital information to the enemies, let alone the enemy's strategist. Wouldn't it suit your purposes for your enemies to fall? Or are the morals in your dead heart telling you otherwise?"

"My morals have nothing to do with this." Bruno said, matter-of-factly. "Victory cannot be achieved by a weapon that destroys so indiscriminately. Embla may win the war but the world will be lost if that thing were to be unleashed upon Zenith. There would be nothing left. No castles to rule from, no people to rule over, no kingdom to rule. The victory I desire does not seek out the destruction of Askr."

"Then what is the victory you desire, prince?"

The masked prince remained silent, his silver hair swaying in the evening breeze.

"So even you yourself aren't even sure what you fight for."

"Don't act like you've figured everything out, tactician." Bruno interjected. "But know this. I will do everything in my power to see that the victory I seek is achieved."

"Even if it means going against your beloved sister?"

Bruno said nothing. But his silence in both denying and admitting was duly noted.

"So you'd resort to treason." Kiran said.

"If it means saving this world, I would gladly give my life... and I have not much time."

"What do you mean?"

The prince only shook his head. "Pay it no mind."

Kiran was quiet for a moment. Marth knew that no matter how hard Kiran would press the matter, Bruno would drop it all the same. "You've told us about the secret weapon that Embla plans on using, and a precaution that we could take. But you still haven't told us what we can do to stop it."

Bruno turned his head briefly to face the bewildered Marth. She swore that she saw him smirk.

"That's where she comes in."

Now Kiran was the one bewildered. "Who?"

The Emblian prince dismounted his horse in a swift motion, leaving Marth as the only rider aboard the lightly armored horse. Marth suddenly felt exposed now that she was the only one atop the horse and facing the hooded tactician, who eyed her closely.

"That mask…" Marth heard Kiran mutter. "It can't be." He then faced the prince. "Why do you have her?" He demanded.

"Others would be more grateful that I saved a fellow comrade-in-arms."

"What do you mean saved?" Kiran questioned, glaring at the prince.

"Never mind that." Bruno remarked. "But my suspicions were right."

Marth felt Kiran's piercing gaze on her, as it moved back and forth between her and the Emblian Prince.

"I have heard reports that you haven't been able to summon anymore heroes through the Breidablik."

Kiran nearly fell off of his horse. "H-how do you know that? That was confidential int—"

"Pay the right amount of gold and anyone will risk life and limb for the right job."

Kiran knew immediately. "So we have spies amongst us."

Bruno shook his head. "You need not worry about them. They have been swiftly dealt with. Anyone willing to abandon their loyalties for a right price is not worth allying with."

Kiran fell quiet for a moment. "But what does this have to do with Marth?"

"If I recall the reports correctly," Bruno began. "Marth was the last hero you summoned."

Kiran nodded begrudgingly. "Indeed she was."

It seems Kiran had already figured out her secret.

"But haven't you thought of it as strange?"

The strategist fell quiet once more, deep in thought. But not after much time, from beneath his hood, Marth could see the man's face light up with realization. "Now, that you mention it, there is something indeed peculiar."

Marth suddenly felt chills run up her spine as the two men talked about her summoning. She didn't understand why, but the tension in the air had clamped down on her like iron shackles, filling her with a sensation of cold dread.

Bruno straightened out his mask. "Have you figured it out yet summoner?"

His hood rustled as Kiran nodded. Then, he immediately shifted his gaze directly towards Marth and peered straight into her eyes beneath her mask. His hard grey eyes were like needles that inserted themselves between the slits that adorned her butterfly mask and into her own. Marth felt paralyzed under such a gaze.

"We haven't had a chance to properly meet Marth—"

"Save the introductions for later." Bruno snapped. "Time is of the essence tactician. We must both be off soon."

"Fine." Kiran said gruffly. He faced Marth again, his piercing gaze returning. "Listen carefully for what I am about to ask you Marth, if that is even who you are."

Marth nodded quietly. This feeling of interrogation unnerved her but she knew she had no choice but to comply. The content of the two's conversation so far had been nothing but world-threatening. If the tactician of the Order demanded answers out of her, so be it.

"You don't have to talk." He said. "Just nod your head yes or shake it no if you do or not know what I am talking about."

Marth nodded.

"The Spear's Head."

She shook her head.

"The Battle of Lif."

She shook her head.

"Geirskogul."

She shook her head.

"The Blood Pact."

She shook her head.

"The Tempest."

For the final time, she shook her head.

This was getting nowhere.

Kiran must have realized that too. As he furrowed his eyebrows and his expression darkened.

"You don't know anything…" Kiran muttered to himself, Marth's ears keen on his words. "But yet here you are… Returned back to us… Is this some divine jape?"

Returned? Marth had no recollection of ever being here. The first time she arrived in Zenith was when she had been summoned by the Order to fight alongside them. That was as far as her memory extended…

But could her lost memories have anything to do with the questions Kiran was asking?

Marth cursed her inability to recall more than ever now.

"She is the Anomaly." Bruno said after a period of long silence filled the air. "The fact that she lives is proof. Even after—"

"You need not say more, prince." Kiran said, his voice grim. "I still remember everything that happened."

"Then you should realize how serious the matter at hand really is."

Even though the two were talking about her, Marth had never felt so isolated before. However, she felt as if the prince was omitting some of the details he had briefly told her when he drew her out of the waters. She couldn't recall them now but she knew that it if the Emblian prince had mentioned any of them, she would remember for sure.

But the prince did not mention anything else.

"Heed my advice Kiran and head to Tellius." Bruno advised. "Take Marth with you. If you really wish to save Askr and the Order, you will do as I have instructed."

Bruno than lifted her off of the horse and towards Kiran's mount. Gently, he let her board the mare and behind Kiran. He then returned to his horse and immediately mounted it one graceful swoop. He began to turn his horse around in the opposite direction.

"Do you really seek victory Prince Bruno?" Kiran asked, breaking the silence.

He was quiet for a moment. "I do."

"Then you are well aware that it cannot be achieved while Princess Veronica sits upon the throne."

There was further silence. "I do."

"I will do as you have told me." Kiran proclaimed. "But I pray that you will uphold your end of this bargain."

"…"

"Zacharias."

Who? Marth wondered to herself.

The prince glared at the hooded tactician one last time before his horse bolted off into the darkness, his entire physical existence being blotted out from their eyes in a matter of seconds.

Then there was sudden crash of woods and leaves from behind them. In no time at all, the once dark and gloomy forest was illuminated with a brilliant light as the clearing was no longer occupied by two people but by a dozen.

"Kiran! There you are!" A familiar voice cried out. "When you disappear on us like that without telling us, it'll cause upheaval in the camp!"

The voice belonged to Alfonse. He was also atop a steed, which was adorned with Askr's colors. He had a worried look on his face, an expression that the prince was not a stranger to, Marth had noted, examining the prince's behavior.

"Sorry, Alfonse." Kiran said, talking to the prince in an informal way. "Just had to clear my head a bit."

Alfonse nodded slowly. "That's fine summoner. But please exercise caution. We can't afford to lose you."

"Duly noted, milord."

It seemed that the secret meeting between Kiran and Prince Bruno would never reach Prince Alfonse's ears. Marth wondered whether it was a blessing or a curse that she had been able to overhear such a thing, given that Bruno had told her that she should have been knocked out cold after the ritual she had partaken in hours prior.

"Is that Marth behind your back?"

There was unexpected voice that called her name. She had not expected him of all people to come out looking for her.

"Lord Ephraim?" Marth asked, as she peer from Kiran's backside.

Indeed, the Scourge himself had made himself part of the search party. Marth privately wondered to herself if he had joined with them to find Kiran or find her. Knowing how the lancer treasured his solitude, Marth thought of it unlikely that he would ever even be a part of a joint operation as this search-and-rescue mission.

Without another word, he brought his horse over to her and carried her from Kiran's mount. He sat her on top of his own horse as he dismounted it, leaving him holding the reins whilst walking beside it.

He walked back towards the bewildered looking prince.

"I fulfilled my end of the deal." He quietly said. "Save both of us some time and talk to me again when the mission actually starts."

Alfonse nodded. "Thank you, Lord Ephraim. We wouldn't have found all of them without your help."

Ephraim scoffed. "Save your thanks when I actually put my powers to good use." He led the horse and Marth away from the main group. With each step, the din and light of the search part slowly faded away. Soon, they had broken off from the main group and were no longer within reach of one another.

Marth wondered what time it was. It had to have been well after midnight. If anything, dawn would break in only a couple of hours. And finally, the realization dawned on her.

She was utterly exhausted.

Her body had been running on fumes for the last couple hours and it hadn't even occurred to her how fatigued she had been since the ritual.

Ritual.

It had slipped her mind entirely.

Prince Bruno had told her that she had been denied into the Order by the goddess.

What did that even mean?

Did that mean her resolve wasn't strong enough? Why had she failed when everything seemed to finally piece together for her? Why had the final trial gone so awry when she finally began to make sense of who she wanted to set herself to be?

And what did Kiran and Bruno mean when they referred to her as the Anomaly?

"Try not to pass out so soon before we reach camp." Ephraim said curtly, initiating conversation for the first time between themselves. It wasn't much but Marth was relieved to hear anything besides the thoughts that were cluttered inside of her head. If even for a moment. "I'd rather not have to deal with a naked woman in the middle of the night."

"I'll try my best." Marth said woozily. The horse was going at a comfortable pace with Ephraim leading it by the reins. It felt like ages since she last rode a proper horse. She wished she could have at least savored the feeling instead of feeling worn out by it. "But aren't you tired? It is well into the night after all."

"Closer to morning at this point." Ephraim remarked, brushing branches out of his path. "Besides, everyone who knew about your ritual thought it had gone wrong when you did not return after an hour."

Marth felt her heart drop at the mentioning of the final trial. Ephraim's hunch was spot on, but how could she tell him that straightaway, what she had endured during the ritual? The sensation of sheer utter helplessness she felt from before still lingered in her body, how no matter how hard she struggled there would be no salvation for her. How the waters only seemed to pull her deeper into its depths.

But yet she survived.

"How does it normally work?" Marth asked, more morbidly curious than anything. Her trial was a near-death experience that ended in failure with her still breathing. She wondered what the other heroes might have gone through. "I mean, the final trial."

"The final trial for every hero is remarkedly different." Ephraim answered. "Some had said they had to wade through an ocean of fire while some others battled with an army of mysterious warriors. What the waters at the shrine bring to you is up to the person being tested."

"Where did you hear all this?" Marth asked.

"From that cleric girl you seem so attached to." Ephraim replied. "She runs her mouth for a long time quite often."

Marth nodded in agreement, not that she resented Genny's talkative ways. In fact she found those chats endearing in the light of all that had happened to her. Marth wondered if Genny had heard of her ritual and was worried for her. She hoped not.

"What was your trial, Lord Ephraim?"

The lancer laughed bitterly.

Marth cocked her sore head. "Did I say something funny?"

Ephraim shook his head.

"Then why—?"

"I don't believe in the power of vows and pacts." Ephraim said abruptly, still marching along steadily beside the horse. "I believe in what I can do with my own two hands and will, not something that bends it like their own plaything."

"So you're saying that you didn't partake in the Heroes' Vows?"

"Why should I? I'm no hero."

And there was the argument again. In the short time the two had spent together, Ephraim hated being referred to as such. He seemed to bear a great grudge against the title but bore no resentment to his more vulgar ones. But Marth knew there had to have been a more deeper meaning behind Ephraim's resentment. After all, why would a man who hates being known as a hero go so far as to enlist within an order made entirely of them?

But Marth knew it wasn't wise to press the issue. Not when she finally got him speaking to her on his own terms.

The fact that he had come looking for her was amazing in it of itself, especially for Lord Ephraim. Even if she was misunderstanding the whole thing, she wanted to think that Ephraim had grown to care for her, even just a little bit, no matter how childish it seemed.

She needed a reason to keep moving forward.

She wanted to know that she mattered, even to at least one person.

Especially after tonight.

"But tell me Marth." Ephraim suddenly said. "What happened? How did you end up so far away?"

Marth felt her blood run cold. There was nothing she inherently knew. All she did was step into the Tears of Spirits for her final trial and before she knew it she was fighting for her life and nearly losing it in the process. And on top of it all, Prince Bruno had told her that she had been rejected by the goddess, whoever she was, and was probably the only hero, if she could even be called that at this point, to have been so far.

How could she tell him that? After all he had done to ready her?

But guilt began to ram at her heart. Because Ephraim was indeed the one that had readied her for what the ordeal was supposed to have been, he deserved the truth. That was the least she could do for the man who took her under his wing in spite of being complete strangers.

But when she opened her mouth, Prince Bruno's words rang in her ear.

The Order may stand a chance. If they don't find out.

Ephraim looked upon her quietly, his gaze, soft for the first time, patiently beckoning for an answer.

"So what happened?" He asked once more. "Is there something wrong?"

Marth swallowed hard. It felt as if she were forcing a piece of lead down her throat. The coldness in the air began to seep into her as the early morning breeze began to blow, dampening the silence that filled the air. It felt as if nature too had turned its attention towards her answer. She closed her eyes for a brief moment.

"Nothing happened."

"Then—"

"I passed."

* * *

 **(A/N):** **The ball is now rolling and pieces are set. I know I'm updating less frequently and I apologize for that. The future chapters are going to reflect this and be significantly shorter than previous ones but please try to understand.**

 **I'm far from done but I wish I had more time. Sadly I do not have as much time as I used to before. I apologize for that in advance.**

 **But thanks for reading. I hope you enjoyed.**

 **Cheers.**


	12. Chapter 11: Bedside Manner

**Potential Spoilers ahead. Read at your own discretion.**

* * *

"We're doing a routine check on the morrow. Be sure to be at the camp square when the horn blows. We move at first light."

"Yes sir."

The brown-haired mercenary left the small tent as quickly as he had entered. Marth remembered his face when she had first arrived in Askr. Evidently, the man was notorious for his sour expression amongst the members of the Order, his permanent scowl never leaving his visage. But behind the man's harsh exterior, Marth knew he meant well. She still remembered in her hazy memory that he was in fact one of the first heroes that offered to help her when she arrived in her weakened state. Of course, General Hector ended up being the one that carried her to the sick room.

Apparently the mercenary was a defector from Embla.

Marth had overheard the gossip of some soldiers in a neighboring unit on how the scowling mercenary once fought against them on the field of battle but had set aside his sword to fight for Askr's cause. Some said he was on a quest for revenge and had left Embla in order to meet his goal. Others claimed the stern-faced mercenary had a change of heart when fighting for the dreaded Embla and decided to fight for Askr.

Their side.

The good side.

Marth knew war wasn't as clear cut as many outsiders who peered in on assumed. There were no good or evil sides to a conflict. Every side thinks that their side was the good one, the side of justice, and that the enemy was the virulent poison that threatened their idea of justice. But Marth knew that even though war was a field of gray matter, sometimes there were irredeemable adversaries, ones that pledged themselves to nothing but sheer destruction for the sake of it.

Not conquest of any kind or a conflict of resources.

Destruction out of simple desire.

Thinking about such things stabbed at her heart, as she clutched at her chest instinctively. These emotions that swirled inside, had her memory begun to return?

She scratched further at her fleeting memories but the attempts were in vain. Her mind refused to recall anything further. With a sigh of defeat, Marth resumed straightening out her new set of armor. Ephraim had the entire set custom made from the respected smith of Order. It was the same man who had tried defending her during her brief audience with the High Council against the verbal abuse of the council member Mauder, the corpulent councilman and skilled blacksmith Wald.

Her slim, white fingers traced the brigandine that was spread eagle before her, her nails sliding atop the rivets that were embroidered onto the leather armor skillfully. A short-sleeved gambeson lay neatly folded next to the navy-blue brigandine, with charcoal vambraces resting above. While smoky, the forearm armor shone back her reflection with a hazy air. Marth felt lost in its gaze.

Marth felt lost and warped even outside of her own reflection in the armor.

Ever since Prince Alfonse had given her the news before the High Council that she was admitted to the Order of Heroes on the condition that she served beneath Lord Ephraim, she felt confused. She didn't feel that way at first of course. It was assuring for her to be placed beneath Lord Ephraim's leadership and in his personal unit but the expressions she received from the normally confident prince and the infamous lancer himself were less than promising. Before the Council had adjourned, out of the corner of her eye she saw Mauder glaring at her with a sinister smile. And it seemed that Ephraim had noticed it too as he stormed out of the council chamber without a word.

The initial joy she had began to recede once she began to ask questions as to what it meant when she was placed in Lord Ephraim's personal unit.

As a matter of fact, she couldn't even really call it that.

Ephraim's unit consisted of entirely one individual before Marth was assigned there. And it was the lancer himself.

After some more prodding, Marth eventually found out that Lord Ephraim's "unit" was actually a special task force of sorts that dealt with the Order's most dire and dangerous missions, with many of them being near suicidal endeavors.

The Spear's Head, it was ironically dubbed, with Lord Ephraim at the forefront of it all.

All alone.

Could that have been the root of his disdain for the Order?

It didn't help that Ephraim was nowhere to be found after the Council had adjourned. It had seemed Ephraim was incredibly bitter about having Marth being enlisted into his unit.

Even without Prince Alfonse telling her, she knew that Mauder had to have meddled with the Council in order to get her assigned in such a dangerous division. She still remembered the impression the caustic councilman left on her, the eyes he glared at her with when he had been forced to resign from his previous stance on her acceptance into the Order. If looks could kill, she would have been torn to shreds.

So perhaps this was his retribution for shaming him in front of the Council of the Order.

Even with her vague memories, Marth held much distaste for political affairs and its snare on virtually everything within its grasp. When politics were involved, everything, and everyone, became two-sided. A sword wouldn't lie to her but the one wielding it could. The shadow of doubt would be prevalent within politics' sphere and be impossible to avoid.

And that was true even in Askr.

Marth shuddered at the prospect of anyone finding out the secret she had to hold now. There were only two people in the world of Zenith that knew it. They were herself and the Emblian Prince Bruno. And he was adamant with her not telling the Order lest they fall.

Her identity was one thing, but this was another matter entirely.

It consumed her with guilt. How could she stand with other actual heroes with no shame when she herself wasn't one? Bruno had told her that the goddess had rejected her. The World of Zenith was judged over by the Silent Goddess and Marth knew nothing about her. While she may have scrounged bits and pieces of history regarding the world, Marth had heard little to nothing about the deity herself. And Ephraim's disdain for divine entities didn't help either.

But what gave her a small sliver of respite was the fact that she wasn't the only one who had successfully done the ritual.

Ephraim himself outright refused to partake in it and the brown-haired mercenary also declined any advancements on the subject. It seemed that he felt a tinge of guilt at once having fought against the Order and purposely refused to elevate himself onto the level of the actual heroes.

And in spite of this, the mercenary grew to be one of the more renowned officers in the Order, almost on par with Princess Sharena's repute and care with his own for his unit. Marth hadn't had the chance to speak thoroughly with the man but his reputation preceded him.

Which was why he was the joint commander for the upcoming mission.

He and Ephraim had been ordered to combine both of their respective units for the march on the Gate of Tellius with another sizeable division following suit. It seemed that Bruno's words had a profound effect on Kiran as he immediately brought forth a plan of entry into Tellius to the Council to gain their approval for "the things to come" as he put it. And so, the two division commanders were brought together to lead the operation and see through it to the end.

The mercenary captained a personal band of 20 soldiers, many who were skilled in various fields of combat and medicine. Marth had been overjoyed at the fact that Genny was a member of this division. It put her at ease to see familiar face when everything else was so unfamiliar to her. It also helped that the sour-faced mercenary's unit was welcoming in spite of the repute Lord Ephraim bore, perhaps even respecting the lancer for his prior deeds.

And it seemed that Ephraim also carried a measure of respect for the mercenary as well. There was an air of silent veneration when the two were speaking at the war council. Marth was worried at first that the two might butt heads but her concerns were for naught. There was mutual respect on both ends that she hadn't easily expected given the many rumors that floated around about Ephraim. Perhaps there were more good-natured people in the Order than Marth had given them credit for.

The two combined divisions amounted to 23 soldiers, two from Ephraim's unit and the rest from the mercenary's division. For such an important operation, the initial number of soldiers being sent seemed so few.

But Marth knew that Ephraim's fighting worth was easily worth companies and companies on end of soldiers. And the Order would be reinforcing them with more soldiers soon enough. There was nothing to worry about.

In fact, it seemed Ephraim was the one doing the worrying.

The set of armor that set before her was proof of that.

Marth saw nothing wrong with the current armor she wore. It was a bit on the lighter side but Ephraim had been the one that suggested she wear it, given the style of fighting Marth favored. He told her that she was light on her feet and needed to work that advantage to her favor and her current armor allowed that. It got its job done properly.

But Marth took a long look at what she was wearing. Sure, it was still functioning but in the end, it was a cluster of various pieces of ill-matching pieces that she had scrounged together over her original outfit that had been badly damaged after the battle at the Field of Fire. She used to be so exact about how she presented herself but now the notion slipped from her mind.

Had she begun to lose who she originally was?

Had the world of Zenith begun to affect her personality as well?

Marth shook her head, trying to cast away her thoughts on the matter. Quietly, she began to undress herself, unhooking and unstrapping the anachronistic pieces of armor and clothes that adorned her toned yet scarred body. Marth did not want to insult Lord Ephraim by denying herself with the armor he had prepared for her. Slipping into the light chest armor easily, Marth fastened the smoky vambraces onto her slender forearms.

They were a perfect fit.

"Haa…" Marth sighed to no one in particular as she felt the cool interior of the armor against her bare skin.

"Marth? Marth are you there?"

Marth jumped at the soft voice that reached her ears. Quickly turning around, she saw an orange-haired cleric peeking her head through the tent flaps with her a worried expression that was due elsewhere.

"I'm not intruding, am I?" She asked. "I seem to be doing that a lot lately."

Marth shook her head. "It's fine." She adjusted the fasteners that were clasped to her forearms. Looking back at Genny, Marth saw that she was still standing by the tent's entrance, unmoving. From her face, it looked as though Genny was waiting for permission to enter. With her hand, she motioned for the cleric to make herself at home. She happily obliged and sat gingerly on the bedside stool.

"Did the captain ask anything of me?" Marth asked, her eyes focused on the tanned leather that was bound to her arms.

"Captain Raven?" Genny replied. "He has retired to his quarters for the evening. But didn't you hear the announcement?"

Marth looked at the young healer questioningly. "The what?"

"The announcement." Genny repeated. "Captain Raven told us to take it easy for the rest of the evening and allowed us to spend night in the nearby village if we wanted to unwind before the mission begins tomorrow."

Marth remembered seeing a small town that neighbored the Tellius Gate outpost when she had marched here several nights before. It was a quiet little hamlet that had survived the onset of the War of Heroes after remaining neutral from it all and still bustled with a homely atmosphere. In the back of her mind, Marth had quietly wished for a chance to visit.

"The captain said that?" Marth inquired. "I didn't know he was the easygoing type."

Genny giggled. "Beneath the scowl the captain is a kindhearted man. He has his reasons for always being so sour but he doesn't let that cloud his judgment. He cares for us deeply after all."

"I guess you're right." Marth nodded. She recalled what she had heard about the mercenary from before. "But isn't this still a bit too relaxed? The operation starts tomorrow."

Genny pointed a finger at the masked swordswoman. "Resting is an equally important part of your health as is your training Marth." She seemed rather passionate in her response. "Trust me, I'm a healer. And besides, Captain Raven's division is well-disciplined. No one here will be engaging in any overly frivolous activities such as tea time while we visit the town."

"… That's oddly specific Gen—"

"Anyway! Enough about my time with the charming mercenary—"

"You're doing it again."

Genny pounded her fluffy head with her small fists as her face shone with a lovely shade of red. Marth smiled to herself at the scene as Genny frantically shook her head and denied any further developments.

It brought her a small sense of normalcy.

"Unnh…" Genny cried to herself. "It's one thing when I'm writing… but I have to stop saying what's on my mind out loud…"

"So you're saying that the charming mercenary is on your mind?"

"HNNH!"

That seemed to be the killing blow as the young girl collapsed stiffly onto the cot, hands covering her face. It was like that of a small pet that was caught in the middle of doing something bad. She laid there unmovingly but squirmed a bit from time to time. Marth fought back the urge to laugh with all her might.

Instead of giving into the aches she felt rising in her belly, Marth sat down next to the stiffened girl whose body jumped at the sudden shift in the bed. Genny peeked slightly from in between her fingers.

"So what were you going to talk to me about?" Marth asked after judging that the cleric had calmed down a bit. "If it's for courting advice I'm afraid I am the least qualified for the job."

"I was going to ask no such thing!" Genny said adamantly, still hotly embarrassed. "I mean… something like that might help but—hey! That's not what I wanted to talk about!"

"Are you sure it isn't?"

"Ghh… your wit really knows how to get at people, huh?"

Marth smiled dryly. "Sorry, I'm not exactly well-loved for my humor."

"Uwah…" Genny wailed. "It's not fair for you to pass it off as something funny when it's actually something serious to me…"

"Oh…" Marth's mind raced to find something encouraging to say. "B-but I'm sure that it won't be a problem for someone like you, right?"

It failed.

"We wouldn't be having this conversation if it wasn't one!" Genny said despairingly. "Nnhh, why must this be so vexing?"

Genny was inconsolable at this point.

"I haven't been blessed with any assets." Genny complained to no one in particular. "Everyone thinks I'm but a young girl."

"But you ar—" Marth began to say before inadvertently looking at herself and realizing that she had no right to be saying anything either.

"Princess Sharena is blessed with such a graceful figure and so is Fir…" Genny continued. "But a lowly cleric like myself is like neither."

Marth began to feel slightly sorry for herself as well but over a different matter.

"Even you Marth!"

"E-eh?!" A startled Marth quipped. "Me?"

"You must have had all sorts of people lined up to see you!"

"N-not really…"

"You're lying."

"Ngh, No I'm not!" Marth snapped. "Maybe it's your tastes that are getting in the way?"

"My tastes are just fine." The cleric pouted.

Marth began to get heated up too. "Well, what are they?"

"Someone who isn't too young. A man that is mature, cares for me deeply, can look after me and treat me like a—hey wait, why am I even telling you this?!"

"From what I've heard, Matthew might fit the bill." Marth suggested.

"I already told you! He's too young for me." Genny retorted.

You're too young for anyone, Marth quietly thought to herself. "Then what of this charming mercenary fellow you're so attached to?" Marth asked. "What of him?"

Genny fell quiet for a moment. "He's perfect." She mumbled quietly.

"Wh-what?"

"I said he's perfect." Genny repeated dreamily. "He's a true gentleman and makes me feel so much at ease. He's quite the traveler as he and his troupe trot around the country frequently… I don't know if he remembers me or not but I have his face etched into my mind like a story manuscript. But most defining of all, the man can dance."

Marth paused. "Dance?"

Genny nodded. "His skill with his blade is on par, if not trumped, with the way he dances. It's like out of a painting, his dances. It's breathtaking how he glides across the floor like a swan upon a moonlit lake… when he danced with me, that time I felt as if I were a princess and that all my troubles were cast away as I was captivated within his arms and his movements…"

Now it was Marth's turn to be quiet.

"I knew of a similar man like that back when…" She began.

She stopped.

When those words passed her lips, Marth felt an inexplicable sense of pain in her heart.

Her memory wasn't clear but the pain was.

It stung with every beat.

"And I'm probably never going to be with him… Unnh…" Genny mumbled. "Enough of that. I've gotten so sidetracked from what I wanted to ask…"

Marth silently thanked the gods that she was wearing the mask. If she hadn't, it would have been a dead giveaway to what she had felt just now. She had finally gotten Genny to act more like herself without having to be worried for her sake. Marth wanted to do all that she could to lighten the girl's burden. She prayed that she wouldn't notice.

Clearing her throat, Marth shifted the conversation herself.

"So what did you want to ask me?"

"Oh, forget it all." Genny wailed, covering her face with Marth's pillow. "You're only going to tease me more."

"Come now." Marth pleaded jokingly as best she could, shaking the orange-haired cleric's shoulders gently. "I promise I won't."

"… You promise?" Genny asked quietly, peeking from the edge of pillow.

"I promise." Marth replied with as much sincerity as she could muster. "What is that you wanted to ask me?"

Genny sniffed. "W-well… I wanted to ask if you would have liked to go visit the town with me."

A sense of relief flooded Marth's heart. It seemed that her sincerity had gotten through to the girl. Smiling with satisfaction, she stood back up from the bed.

"Sure, why not?" She answered.

Then, like a force of nature, Genny leapt from the bed and practically flew around the tent with joy, much like how a child would react during the Winter Festivals. Marth couldn't help but smile at the young girl's innocent happiness.

"Then we have to get going!" Genny said explosively. "There are only so many hours left in the night!" She latched onto Marth's hand tighter than armor and immediately began pulling her to the tent's entrance. "We have so much to see, places to be, and people to see—eh, forget the last part—but we need get moving!"

"Genny, I get that you're excited but—"

Genny turned around, with most insulted expression she could draw from her innocent face aimed at Marth. "What are you waiting for Marth? But what?"

Only then did the realization sink in. But it was far too late to point things out. The tent flaps closed behind them and Genny's face went bright red, almost as red as it was when they were talking about her tea time partner. But this was a rather different matter from the latter.

The evening breeze gently whisked across the camp.

"Can I put on my pants first?"

* * *

 **(A/N): The first lighthearted chapter in the story! Quite the breath of fresh air to write to be completely honest. I hope it did not break the atmosphere too much. I wanted to give Genny and Marth some more screentime due to the lack of it in the previous chapters.**

 **Thanks for reading!**

 **Cheers.**


	13. Chapter 12: A Mercenary's Promise

**(A/N): Welcome back. Here's the next chapter.**

* * *

"Another job well done. Thank you for your help once again Azul. We don't know how we would get by without you."

The mercenary smiled softly, flashing a grin that was bound to swoon many a lass's heart. It seemed to work on the tavern maid as her gaze and heart seemed aflutter, her hands unable to find respite in the air. In the past, he would not have hesitated at the chance to steal her heart. Had he been his old self, this would be the opportunity of a lifetime as he used to call it.

But that life was in the past.

"What could we do to repay you, Azul?" The maid asked, earnest. "We are heavy in your debt. You deserve so much more than we can offer you… But…"

He merely shook his head at the maid's advances and motioned with his gloved hand for her to stop. "All we did was do what was asked of us. We require nothing more."

"But Azul—"

He rested his bare finger on the tavern maid's slender lips. The name used to irk him to no end but now, it no longer sounded foreign to his weathered ears. He spoke in his honeyed voice.

"You'd do anything to repay us?"

The maid nodded with vigor.

"Anything, you say?"

"Yes, yes?" The maid asked, beckoning for the man's answer as she clasped her hands together.

Perhaps he could use this to his advantage.

"If you insist…"

* * *

The autumn breeze whipped at Azul's cheek, blowing past what little protection his hooded cloak offered him. Winter was quickly approaching, the wind's touch told him as much. No longer did the breeze feel like a soft kiss, rather it was growing to be a foul sting, the kind that erases all previous warm feelings one may have held for it. Azul's long silver hair danced with it still, riding along its current to the melody of the whittling trees and the mourning of crows.

It was the season of death after all.

With the crunch of a dead branch beneath his boot, Azul realized all had gone quiet. The bony branches stopped their ghastly promenade. The birds halted their songs of passing. It was as if the world had decided to hold its breath and never part its lips again.

Azul knew the feeling well.

With the sound of snapped branches still fresh in his ear, Azul was able to instantly identify an identical sound that came from elsewhere besides the underside of his boot. It was definitely close. Whatever it was must have realized the noise it had caused. Azul heard no further sounds or movements. The slightest shift in posture would have drawn his attention. There was nothing,

Yet.

In a sudden, swift motion, one that not even the world's most skilled dancers would be capable of, Azul rushed to the wooden stakes he had driven into the ground before.

The two inconspicuous pikes hid within the cluster of dead sticks and branches that littered the forest floor. The untrained eye would have missed them without a second glance. But this wasn't Azul's first time resorting to such tactics.

Quickly brandishing a knife, he cut the thick cord he had left hogtied onto the stake. With the rope no longer there to hold the weight that was previously attached, the cord whipped along the forest floor, kicking up leaves as it flew by until it reached its target.

A small noose tightly bound around the ankle of a red-headed mercenary.

… perhaps it was still too early to call her that.

A gale of curses bellowed across the hollow woods, scaring away what little remained of the choir of birds. Their flapping of wings was the remnant of their song. And with that, it seemed the world had begun to breathe once more, granting sound its much needed reprieve.

Quickly retreating the knife as soon as he had brandished it, Azul walked on over to his successful catch. He was getting rather good at this. With a bemused grin, he scoffed at the girl's dangerous expression as if it were the funniest joke in the world.

Azul knew that she could have reached for the dagger she always had left fastened around her boot and slashed him with it. She was indeed that close. But she must have learned her lesson from the last time. The badge of honor in question had now finally begun to fade, a fine clean cut that had once streaked across her pretty little face, from the crown of her head to tip of her chin.

Would she ever forgive him for that?

"So, what does this make it, darling?" He quipped cheerfully. "Your fourth attempt on my life? Or perhaps the fifth? I'm losing count."

"… —vnth…" she muttered beneath her breath.

"What?" Azul said mockingly, "You're going to have to speak louder than that to get my attention."

"Seventh." She barked in a stern voice that betrayed her delicate visage. Azul was rather amused at her unwillingness to accept her current situation. It rather warmed his heart.

The girl reminded him of her…

"Really now?" He announced. He wasn't done with his teasing yet. "I swear the last two times in Eindholm you were simply trying to woo me. You should've said so. I know a fantastic place for te—"

"Azul, are you alright?!"

From the thicket beyond the woods, several armed individuals emerged, their outfits matching Azul's. The voice belonged to the leader of the merry bunch, a girl who had only just reached her prime in maidenhood. Her youthful face was a stark difference in comparison to savage-looking bow she armed herself with. Her gaze was worried until it found the cheery mercenary resting next to his assailant.

"I thought you were in danger when those crows erupted from nearby." The leading girl said, several strands of her blonde hair swaying from side to side in front of her eyes. "But here we find you flirting with the one girl that tried to kill you. Multiple times."

Azul grinned. "Hey now, it was only playful banter. I'm not going to go back on my word."

The blonde girl gave off an exasperated sigh as she motioned the other members of their group to start their usual cleanup. "It's not like I'm telling you because it benefits me. What would Miss Luna think if she saw her husband forgetting about her like some bar maid?"

The name still stung his ears and stabbed at his lead-laden heart, the pain lingering. Perhaps it would never heal.

But he couldn't show them that.

"You're right." Azul nodded, apologetically. "I should've been more mindful. Sorry, Relia."

"Hey." The girl, Relia, snapped, flicking the young man on the forehead. "Save the apologies for when you see Lady Luna again. If you're really sorry, then help us. You're the Masquerade's leader. Act like it."

He chuckled, amused at the retainer's familiar attitude. "Right away."

He turned back to his prisoner. "Well, I apologize but I'm afraid we'll have to put our little chat on hold."

"I don't ever want to talk to you." The red-headed girl growled, her temper as fiery as her mane. "Not after what you did to sully my family's—"

Azul swore that he heard Relia mutter "not this again" beneath her bated breath as she resumed cleaning with her comrades. He sighed. If the Masquerade were a legitimate acting troupe, not even the kindest critic in the world would have let the red-headed girl's repeated performance slide. Even Azul's own mother, who was a soft-spoken maiden, bless her heart, may have lambasted the poor lass.

Luckily for her, Azul was a man of second chances.

And this was no ordinary theatre troupe.

* * *

The campfire's blaze flickered as the eve of the morrow approached. Most of the troupe had retired to their sleeping quarters, which consisted of rather shoddy looking tents and leather roofed shelters, with rough hide patches for beds. Life was already hard as mercenary, let alone an entire group of them. Work was a volatile creature; one day they would be flooded with assignments but on another they'd be left to fend for themselves with nothing but the clothes on their backs and swords by their sides.

As the captain, it was Azul's responsibility to make sure the Masquerade made it through whatever was thrown at them. In fact, he wanted them to stop surviving and start living for once. But funds, and generous patrons, were scarce, especially during wartime.

Mercenaries carried a bloodied reputation, no matter how just they claimed their intentions were. Vagabonds, they would be called, that drifted looking for wetwork; soldiers without a cause except for the melody of a few coins; cutthroats that would side with no man but with the allure of gold.

People would be wary and a paranoid of such armed groups wandering the lands, who wouldn't be? It took months for the locals to even warm up to them in the first place.

After all, what self-respecting Askrian citizen would hire Emblian deserters?

"Can't sleep?"

Azul looked over his shoulder and saw his golden-haired lieutenant sit down next to him, kicking up a small cloud of dust by her boots. He simply nodded, returning his gaze and attention to the dissatisfied fire. Her mood was sour and about to become more so.

"The mission today." Relia started. "Did you keep up our end of the bargain?"

Azul nodded.

"Then where is the payment that they owed us?"

"Didn't take it."

"You what?!"

"Hush!" Azul motioned with his index finger. "You'll wake up everyone!"

"Hush yourself!" Relia shot back. "You know we needed that payment to acquire more supplies for the upcoming winter! What are we going to do without it?"

"Then what would you have me do?" Azul retorted. "Take the last savings of a down on their luck family? Leave them out in the streets in the wintertime to freeze to death while we gorge ourselves with the luxuries they gave us at the cost of their own lives?"

"Then would you rather have the Masquerade starve and die instead?" Relia snapped. "As your lieutenant, I think its my duty to remind you that your obligation should lie with your soldiers, not the whims of the people we receive contracts from."

"And it's my duty as the leader of the Masquerade to guide my men and women." Azul proclaimed. "And I will not guide them down the path that causes suffering to those who are innocent. We do not live as mercenaries to serve ourselves. We serve the people we have wronged. We serve to atone for our crimes and all the blood we have shed upon the people."

"The Masquerade is going to suffer for this, you know."

"And I will suffer alongside them. I will not resort to cowardly methods to save our skins at the cost of others. We will get through this. I promise."

Relia sighed. "There's that look again. I know there's no arguing with that face."

Azul laughed. "What? Have you gotten used to it?"

"No. Far from it." She said, rubbing her eyes. "Lady Luna taught me as much."

"I wish she taught you some more tact." Azul mused.

"And I wished she taught you to stop being so thick-headed and stubborn."

He chuckled. "Sorry, Relia. But I think it's too late for me."

"For once I agree with you."

Azul rolled his eyes. "Well, all's not lost."

Relia raised her eyebrow.

"Our client's village is having a festival all throughout tonight. She has invited us to attend as guests of honor."

Relia sighed. "You know the Masquerade shouldn't be parading around in open moonlight around these parts. Emblian forces may get wind of us. And besides, everyone besides Olliel detests social gatherings as such. We aren't the most sociable group around."

"Then you and I will attend." Azul said. "It would be most discourteous to turn down such an attractive offer and it will help with some public image polishing. We'll need it ever since that big skirmish down by the Askrian camp. We need to let the people know we are on their side. What do you say?"

"… will there be drinks?"

"It's a damn festival." Azul barked. "You will be able to drink to your heart's content."

"Good." Relia said, a shallow smile breaching her face. "I'm going to need one after tonight… and after dealing with that girl."

"How is she?"

"A regal pain in the arse." Relia said, reaching for the silver flask that sat next to the stump Azul sat upon. He was no alcohol enthusiast, the drink burned his throat, but Relia downed it like it were nothing but mere water. The girl was full of surprises.

"Such coarse language is unbecoming of a lady of your ilk," Azul quipped, clicking his tongue.

"Then how 'bout you take care of the new recruits yourself then?" Relia shot back in between her swigs. "And besides, I gave up that courtly nonsense ever since I decided to run away with you, Lady Luna, and Sir Eudes."

"Touché." Azul chuckled. Contrary to Relia's demure appearance, she was quite the hellraiser back in Embla. "Queen Bee," she was called, her aim sharp but her tongue even sharper. She learned from the best after all. It was a wonder how she ever even came to respect Azul in the first place.

"Little Miss Noble is a handful, even worse than Olliel was." Relia remarked, setting aside the emptied flask on a patch of dried weeds "You must have done something real awful to her oh, so noble family if she is this adamant in claiming your life."

Azul laughed. It wasn't the first time he had this conversation. It sure as hell wouldn't be his last either. "She's a tough lass, I'll give her that. But she isn't a killer. She has the fire in her eyes but not in her body."

"Easy for you to say." Relia retorted. "She looks like she wants nothing more than to grind us all to a pulp."

"And how did you handle that?"

"Well, she's fast asleep now."

Azul sighed. "New recruits aren't animals, you know. You've got to let them warm up to the idea of joining us."

"Sounds just like hound training to me." Relia mused, leaning back on the log she sat against. Then she sat back up. "But I just don't get it."

"Hmm?" Azul asked, taken aback by his lieutenant's strange words. "What do you mean?"

"If it were up to me, I would have put whoever threatened my life into the ground without a second thought…" She began. "But you, you haven't even considered that as an option. Why?"

Azul shrugged his shoulders. "I'm a man of second chances."

Relia stared at him with demurred gaze.

"What?"

"Or is it because it was another pretty face you could pick up and attach to your personal little army here?"

"Wha—" He was dumbfounded. "You know, for a retainer, you have an incredibly lousy impression of me."

Relia played with a golden lock of her hair. "For the record, I was never your retainer. I was Lady Luna's. You never even had one to begin with."

"R-right." Azul muttered. It was true. Relia was Luna's retainer when they were back in Embla. It was a small courtesy offered by the Emblian army for the heroes that had come to Zenith. He was too busy off exploring and had not heard the formal announcement. In the end, Luna chose her personal retainer and Eudes, as eccentric as he was, took up a "dark apprentice" to follow in his footsteps, as he used to say. Thinking back on the past, he sighed reflexively.

"S-sorry." Relia apologized genuinely. "I didn't mean to remind you of—"

Azul shook his head. "It's fine. I'm over it now."

An uncomfortable silence fell between the two, a silence that was rarely heard between the duo in the face of their constant back-and-forth bickering. It was such a foreign feeling, Relia had begun to squirm slightly in her seat.

She had to break the silence.

"Do you ever regret it?"

"What's this all of a sudden?" Azul asked.

"I—I… Do you…" Relia fumbled to find the right words. It was not like her to be at a loss of what to say. Lady Luna had taught her that a true lady would not let the trifling of emotions get the better of her in the search of finding the right thing to say.

But perhaps she wasn't the perfect student her master had painted her to be.

"What I meant was do you ever regret leaving?" Relia finally managed to get the words out. She never breeched upon the matter with Azul. In spite of being his right hand, there some things she knew she should never touch on during a conversation. Perhaps the alcohol clouded her judgment, or maybe even the mood had directed her words this way. In fact, she almost regretted saying anything on the matter at all once the words left her lips. She readied herself for the verbal thunderstorm that was her way. She braced herself like Lady Luna had taught her.

Except it was for naught.

Azul simply sat there, quietly contemplating on her question.

"No."

"But if you hadn't then maybe Lady Luna and Sir Eudes might be—"

"That's enough."

Relia took that as her cue to shut up.

Azul, surprisingly, began to speak again.

"If I falter now, their deeds will all be in vain. All we have sacrificed to make it this far, to start pining for the past would be spitting on all they have done for us. As the Masquerade's leader, what kind of leader would I be if I started having second thoughts in front of all my family? If it were any of them, Luna or Eudes, they would be saying the same in my boots."

Relia had nothing to say in response.

"They're still out there, somewhere. No way in hell are they dead, I'm sure of it." Azul said quietly, as if he were convincing himself, but Relia knew that the mercenary didn't need any more convincing on his own end.

"How can you be so sure?"

"We've saved three worlds." Azul said, matter-of-factly. "It's going to take a lot more than some sort of tempest or storm to kill us."

Relia smiled softly. "I'll take your word for it then. That one day we will see them again."

"It's a promise. It isn't worth much, but I'll bet my name on it."

"You were called as a hero to Zenith." Relia said. "You give yourself far less credit than you're due for."

He laughed. "Some hero I turned out to be."

"The word's lost its meaning a long time ago." Relia replied. "But if someone goes out of their way to save as much lost people as he can in this hellhole, I can safely call that person a hero in my book."

Azul smiled as he ruffled her golden hair with his hand. "Thanks."

"Don't misunderstand." She snapped cheekily. "You just seemed extra out of it today, so I thought I would just cheer you up a bit. That's all."

"Sure, sure. Whatever you say."

"You're the boss… So, we'll take that noble girl in… Just as long as it doesn't come back to bite me in the arse later."

"Lang—aw, to hell with it." Azul sighed in defeat. Still, a smile remained on his face.

"Then let's get going boss." Relia announced, standing up and stretching her back. "The night's still young and the town and its drinks await us."

Azul laughed. "Alright, alright, I'm coming. And stop calling me boss, it makes me feel old."

"Then what do you want me to call you?" Relia said, stopping in her tracks. "You never liked it when I called you Azul."

He thought quietly for a moment. Scratching his silver hair, he merely laughed, leaving his lieutenant dumbfounded. He smiled once more.

Perhaps it was okay now.

After all, he had already fulfilled the promise to that world long ago.

"You may call me Inigo."

* * *

 **A/N: I've been gone for some time, I know. It is getting harder and harder to work on this project of mine. I wish I could dedicate as much as I could before but life's demanding my attention elsewhere most of the time. So, again, I apologize for putting this off for so long. I wish I could say that updates will be coming as scheduled but I have no guarantees anymore.**

 **Sorry if that disappoints you.**

 **But, I hope this makes up for my lack of updates. I appreciate all readers.**

 **Thanks for reading.**

 **Cheers.**


	14. Chapter 13: Rumored Identity

Welcome back. It's been a while.

Please enjoy. Potential spoilers ahead. Read at your own discretion.

* * *

Pitch black.

Surrounded by a whirlwind.

He was back here again.

This dreaded hell.

The darkness enveloped him, smothering his very being, threatening to snuff his existence out within its perpetual gloom. If he had the strength, he would tried whatever he could to break free from this prison. But as it always had been, his limbs were frozen, as if they were suspended in the air and bound. He grit his teeth.

It was happening all over again. He was to see everything like he had decades ago. The moment that destroyed his life.

His unforgiveable sin.

"Brother?" He didn't even need to turn around to know whose voice this belonged to, as it cleared a way though the rippling gale. It was a presence that was imprinted into his very being, a voice he knew the day he was born, another half of who he was.

His twin sister.

Another destined to be the light that would pierce through the darkness

A light he had extinguished

"Why won't you look at me…? Have I… brought shame to you again?"

He wanted to say no. He wanted to protest against the words of his sister. He always did. But his body would not respond. No sound escaped his lips. His words would never reach her. They never did.

"Bro…ther…"

The voice was more labored now, stricken with deep pain. It no longer came from behind him. Rather, it was coming from before him.

Right from between his arms.

There she lay, the visage of his beloved sister corrupted by grisly wounds that lined her mangled body. Blood began to flood from her wounds, seeping into his hands. Seeping into his soul.

He had tried to avert his gaze so many times but the only thing that the darkness would permit him to see was his sister, breathing her last.

Just as she had that day.

Unstoppable tears welled at the corner of his eyes. That was as far as his body would allow him to speak, the hot stream of teardrops streaming down his frozen face, falling quietly atop his sister's torn face, mixing with her blood. The clear drops were the only testament and comfort he could give to his dying sister. He cursed himself every time.

With the last remnants of her strength, she reached out to his face to wipe away the tears, her own weak hand threatening to fall away at any minute but standing resolute. What was left of her fingers traced his cheeks, the warmth that he was so familiar with replaced by what could only be death.

The blood that had seeped into his arms burned with what could only be divine retribution, a righteous fire that was to burn away a sinner like himself. His arms began to blacken and crack, the flesh falling away like the wax of a candle. But he felt no pain.

The only thing he felt was something being ripped apart from his heart.

While a river of blood flowed past her lips, his sister opened them one last time.

"Forgive me, Ephraim."

* * *

"L-Lord Ephraim? Are you in there?"

An unfamiliar voice from outside his tent forced him awake from what he was forced to see every night. Cold sweat dotted every pore in his body as he sidled off the edge of the shoddy stool that sat next to his makeshift desk. He must have fallen asleep after reviewing the presented strategies presented to him for the voyage into the Gates of Tellius. It wasn't like him to be swept up by his work. It also wasn't like to be this heavily affected by his nightmare.

He took a deep breath to clear his head before he walked over to his tent flap to answer the untimely visitor. With his bandaged hand, he pulled away at the fold and walked outside.

The bitter and brisk midnight air was not the only thing that greeted him. A small group had formed outside his tent, awaiting his entrance. The voice that had called out to him stood several meters from the entrance to his tent. While her voice was unfamiliar, Ephraim was able to recognize her immediately. The sword by her side was unmistakable.

"Karel's niece? Fir, was it?"

She nodded her head earnestly. "Oh thank goodness. I thought I came to wrong the tent. You wouldn't answer when I called out to you. Are you feeling unwell perhaps? I may have something to deal with—"

"I fell asleep." The lancer said frankly. "Don't waste your efforts on someone like me."

"I-I see." Fir said, nervously. The two hadn't spoke with one another before and, considering the reputation Ephraim held, the girl had every right to be anxious talking to him. He didn't blame her, nor did it bother him in the slightest. "But if you ever do feel unwell, I-I'll be glad to help."

Ephraim was quiet for a moment. He eyed the young swordswoman. She was visibly shaken by his mere presence yet continued talking to him as a fellow comrade would. Her behavior reminded him of Marth. He thought over the matter briefly.

"I mean, if it bothers you, I'll—"

"I'll consider it." Ephraim said abruptly.

The girl was thoroughly surprised, and rightfully so. People hadn't seen him in months, rather, people did the best they could to avoid him. This was his first time agreeing to work with any division of the Order, it was inevitable that many were wary of him. It seems they expected him to refuse at every turn.

"O-oh," Fir finally managed to say, a small smile on her face. "I'll be sure to expect a visit from you then."

"No promises." He muttered. He shifted his gaze side to side. The others that came with Fir were still several steps away from him, a feeling of tension radiating from their gazes. He turned back to Fir. "What business do you have with me at this hour?"

"Oh right!" Fir exclaimed. "Almost forgot. Captain Raven wanted me to bring you to the Officers' meeting."

He raised an eyebrow. "Officers' meeting? What for? We don't march till dawn."

"The commander and council members came down and told us that there was a change of plans and that we march now." Fir informed him. "We will march first as the vanguard with half of our force following suit to resupply and reinforce our division."

"Half of our force?" Ephraim spat, exasperated. He didn't know that the operation was going to be on this massive of a scale. He knew a resupply unit was going to be following after the initial divisions entrance into Tellius but he didn't expect it to be half of the Order's forces. That explained why the commander was here, but why in the world would this operation require that many troops? "Why are we mobilizing such a big mass of our army for this mission?"

Fir shrugged her shoulders. "I-I can't say. But I think that's why Captain Raven asked for your presence at the meeting."

Things were moving quite quickly. Out of nowhere, the vanguard was told to march far ahead of schedule, almost in the dead of night. On top of that, half of the Order's army was following after them to Tellius. All this spelled was the onset of an large scale war, the likes of which he had only seen once since arriving in Askr. There would be no use asking Fir anymore questions. He would pry as much information from Raven and the commander.

"Then let us be off." Ephraim ordered. "We can't afford to waste time it seems."

Fir bowed. She quickly turned to the group she came with and made a wide hand gesture. The group understood what she had done and quickly dispersed into the sea of tents that lay before them. Turing back to the lancer, she beckoned for him to follow after her to which he obliged quickly.

* * *

"Why did Raven send you and a group of people to come get me?" Ephraim asked after having walked quietly for a while.

"Huh? Oh!" Fir said, taken aback by the lancer's comment. It seemed she hadn't anticipated that he would try to strike up a conversation with her. "Well, Captain Raven was in a meeting with the commander and couldn't leave. He asked that I come in his stead."

"Then what about the group you came with?"

"I—um…" She was at a loss for words at the question.

"Let me guess." Ephraim mused. "They were there to put me down if I voiced any dissent. Am I right?"

Fir had no comment.

"Expected as much." Ephraim said to no one. The air fell silent and heavy upon Fir's shoulders. Only the sound of the crunching dirt beneath her boots offered any solace in the oppressing silence. It didn't sit right with her.

"I—I'm sorry!" Fir exclaimed, stopping in her tracks and bowing. It was the lancer's turn to be taken aback. "I requested for a group to come with me in case anything was to happen… I… heard bad rumors regarding… you, Lord Ephraim. Forgive me if I have insulted you."

The Scourge Lord shook his head. "It was smart of you."

Fir could only stare at her feet. She felt guilty of acting this way in front of a fellow comrade. What would Roy think if he had seen the prejudiced way she acted towards this man all because of a few rumors she heard from people? She sighed with disgust in her own actions.

"Y—you aren't like what some people say about you." She finally managed. "You didn't even arm yourself when you came with me."

"And what do people say that I am?"

She felt hesitant to say it but she owed Lord Ephraim the truth at the very least.

"They say you are a savage that only lusts after battle. Unwilling to listen to anyone or anything. A sadist at heart that wouldn't bat an eye at killing a comrade."

An icy smile had spread across his face. It churned Fir's insides. This wasn't the reaction she was expecting. Not at all. "Pray tell." He said. "Who told you all this?"

"L—Lord Mauder."

"Was he also the one who suggested that you bring a group to come get me?"

Fir had nothing to say.

Ephraim laughed, but it wasn't the hearty laugh she usually pictured her father or Roy with. It was dry, and full of scorn, a laughter that was made to mock those who heard it. Even though the lancer had turned his back to her, she could feel a dark aura emanating from the man. It filled her with unease. And this unease rode with her the whole way until the reached the war council tent.

"We—we have arrived." Fir announced flatly, her voice close to trembling. "Captain Raven and the others should be waiting for you inside."

The lancer said nothing but simply nodded his head, his sea-green hair swaying across his face.

Just as Fir turned to leave, Ephraim had called out to her.

"Fir."

She turned to face him.

"Tell whoever was going to put me down this."

"…"

"They're going to need a bigger group than that."

Fir could only stand and watch the lancer smile as he retreated into the tent, disappearing from her sight, leaving her to wonder whether the rumors she heard about the man were unfounded or the truth.

* * *

 **Happy Easter and April Fools!**

And no, this chapter isn't a joke. Sorry if that's what you expected


	15. Chapter 14: A Council Swayed

**Welcome back. In an unprecedented move, I actually updated the story within a week instead of a million years. Haha. All joking aside, I just had some extra time this week, and last week's chapter was too short so here's to make up for that.**

 **And sorry for those who came early. I had to delete this chapter for a moment due to formatting errors.**

 **Hope you enjoy.**

 **Potential spoilers ahead. Read at your own discretion.**

* * *

"Commander Anna delivered intel that Princess Veronica herself was moving with a force much larger than our own vanguard towards the gate as well. If we could route her troops before she has a chance to know or retaliate, we may have the chance to land a decisive blow."

The plan was simple.

The network of spies had brought vital information that Princess Veronica and her personal guard were en route to the Gates of Tellius themselves. Despite the Emblians' larger army, the Order was much closer to the gate and had a chance to prepare themselves. And if the Order managed to win over the Radiant Hero to their side, the fight was easy as won. That explained why the larger force was riding after the vanguard. If everything went according to plan, the war would come to a grinding halt. With the loss of their nation's figurehead, peace talks would arise from Embla. The War of Heroes would eventually draw to a close. It was simple.

Far too simple.

Debate was rife within the war council after Raven had finished speaking. While Raven and Anna monitored over the meeting, the Order's council members hurriedly argued amongst themselves over proceedings. For a gathering of so few, voices erupted throughout the tent as if the masses themselves had gathered. Ephraim sat quietly, thinking over the plan many times in his head.

Why in the world was the crown princess of Embla riding with the army personally? The lancer was well-aware that she did occasionally show up on the battlefield but those moments were nothing but political statements to her people and the people of Askr. The girl was a talented mage but Ephraim knew that she was not suited for the battlefield, let alone an arduous march such as this. There were far too many risks involved in the operation.

Prince Bruno would have been a much more suitable candidate in leading an army of that reported size against their forces. The prince was not one to be trifled with on the battlefield. Mages were already a nuisance amidst the chaos that was the fighting, whoever decided that they should attack from atop horses was one crazy bastard, the Scourge Lord thought to himself. But with that in mind, why wasn't someone of the prince's caliber leading the army?

Why was the princess the one marching her army? And to Tellius of all places?

"The Radiant Hero has held of invaders of both sides for as long as I can remember." An Order Council member whose name Ephraim couldn't remember said. "The land of Tellius isn't in any danger as far as we know. The deeds of the Radiant Hero tell us that much."

"We need to recruit the Radiant Hero to our side." Commander Anna replied. "With every passing day, news of the Order's weakness creeps ever closer to Emblian ears. If they heard of how our army was in shambles, nothing could be done to resist an all-out invasion."

"It's true." Wald, the portly councilman, said. "A good bulk of our forces were mowed down by Embla's newly established mage cavalry brigade. We are still crippled in many divisions of our army and are operating at half-strength. Not to mention Lady Lyndis and her envoy are still missing. If Embla did catch wind of our debilitated military, they would pounce on the chance with everything they've got."

"Then why don't we use our populace?" Mauder, who was already in a foul-mood, snapped. "It's about time the people we protect helped us in return."

"People do not become soldiers in a day, let alone a single month." Raven said. "We have received several dozens of volunteers from our civilian corps to our cause but volunteers are understandably short in supply."

"That's the problem, Captain Raven." Mauder said. "If we give people a choice, of course they would prefer not to fight."

"Then are you proposing we issue a draft?"

Mauder nodded. "Precisely."

"That is preposterous!" Wald exclaimed. "We would be tearing families that need fathers and sons away! Especially in these dire times! Are we to follow in the footsteps of Embla? Doing such will be trampling atop King Domeric's legacy!"

"Then would you rather the Emblian's trample atop the remains of what's left of us and the Order after they kill us all?" Mauder seethed with righteous fury. "I speak for the continued survival of our nation. Even you must be able to see that!"

The room fell relatively silent.

"It's true." Ephraim finally spoke, breaking the silence. "Even if we did recruit the Radiant Hero, much of our army remains in tatters. We will still need to reinforce the holes we have in our forces, especially if we embark on an operation of this magnitude."

"I'm glad you see things my way for once, Scourge." Mauder said with an oily smile. "If you had only done so from the beginning, maybe we could have—"

"Don't flatter yourself." Ephraim snapped. It wasn't very often he agreed with a man as despicable as Mauder. In fact, he was solely responsible for Ephraim's relative exclusion in all executive discussions and decisions made by the Order. He could count on a single hand the amount of times he had been allowed into any of these meetings, let alone speak in one.

The councilman's expression instantly turned sour.

"I am not speaking for your benefit and nor did I say we needed to draft our civilian populace."

"Then what do you propose we do, Ephraim?" Raven asked.

Ephraim thought quietly for a moment. "We issue a training draft and test for all able-bodied people between the ages of sixteen and forty. Men and women included—"

"The women?!" A wiry councilman cried. "Are you telling us to send our daughters to die on some brigand's spear?"

"You need people that will defend your nation." Ephraim retorted, shooting an icy glance at all the wary gazes that came his way. "They carry as much of Askrian blood as your sons. Blood looks all the same to the enemy. Wouldn't you rather have your children have a fighting chance than be food for the worms?"

Another brief silence fell upon the weary council. Clearly, the matter at hand weighed heavily on their minds. Whatever the reason for their held tongues, it gave Ephraim a chance to finish his thoughts from before.

"With a training draft, we are to raise the aptitude of the civilian population so that in the event of a national crisis, they have a better chance than they do now to survive. Based on test results, we can allow specializations within the civilian corps to bolster their ranks."

"We have instructors who will be able to assist with the tests." Anna agreed, nodding her head.

"But remember this." Ephraim said, a steel in tone. "The civilians will receive formal training and be allowed to serve alongside the Order but they are soldiers in name only. The Order must not force them to—"

Mauder slammed his fist onto the table. "What kind of backwards hogwash are you speaking of, Scourge? To not force the civilians? That's essentially capitulating to Embla's army! Giving such a choice to people is—"

"A man forced to fight will flee at the first sign of defeat." Raven interrupted, his gravelly voice cutting through the councilman's own. "That is the sort for army you are asking for Mauder."

"You'd know all about that, wouldn't you Captain Raven?" Mauder spat, his eyes glaring at the mercenary, full of malice. "Being a deserter yourself, I'm sure you're rather familiar with treason."

The captain could offer no retort.

"Gentlemen. I'm afraid if we continue this course we will stray from matters more urgent and present at hand."

An authoritative voice boomed across the battlefield the war council tent had become. Squabbling council members immediately grew quiet and even the belligerent Mauder has his voice silenced. The commanding voice belonged to none other than the Order's tactician himself as he strode his way through the tent. All eyes followed the hooded man's movements as he made his way to the head of the table by Anna.

It had grown impossibly quiet in the war council tent, as if the council members had seen a god in their presence. Ephraim was just thankful that it had finally grown quiet for once.

"I agree with your sentiments wholeheartedly, Lord Mauder." Kiran said, gesturing towards the councilman, who had grown pleased with himself with the tactician's words. "The Order does need to patch the holes it has in its side."

"I'm glad you can see things my way." Mauder said. "The rest of this council isn't so eager as to accept the truth of the situation." He glared at Ephraim.

"However, Lord Ephraim's words also ring true as well." Kiran announced, matter-of-factly.

The tactician's sudden sentiment surprised Ephraim but Mauder even more so. The councilman's jaw was agape. "Whatever do you mean, Sir Kiran?" He was losing his composure after having his opinion ousted by the lancer's own.

"Men who fight by the sting of the whips on their back will stop fighting as soon as someone stops swinging the whip." Kiran answered. "It would be easier for us to hire mercenary companies if that's the civilian militia we plan to raise. At least gold will keep them from fleeing their posts."

"Then do you propose that we give wages to our civilian army?" Wald suggested. "It would put a strain on our treasury but it can be done." Ephraim could see Mauder grimace at the mention of giving capital away to the masses.

"A favorable idea." Kiran agreed, nodding his head. "But we have to give the people something that gold or gems cannot even buy."

"And what would that be?" Mauder asked.

"The will to fight." The tactician proclaimed, vigor in his voice. "We have to instill the idea in the people that they are fighting to defend their homes and families, that that is the idea they have been called to fight, not because some lord drove them from their homes to do so in his stead. The desire to protect something dear will outweigh any desire to flee."

The council, the one that had previously been at each other's throats over the matter, all looked at one another with agreeing looks. Kiran's words were a resounding success in bringing the council's members under a singular proposal. Only Mauder appeared to be unconvinced.

"Idealistic proposals are noble, Sir Kiran." He began. "But we must also think within the realm of feasibility as well. How are we to engrave such a sentiment into the people?"

Kiran was quiet for a moment. "What Lord Ephraim suggested earlier seems to be a good route to take. Issue a training draft and allow specialization training. But at the end of the day, we do not force the people into the army. Let the people, not the Order, decide for themselves if their homes and families are worth fighting for."

Voices of affirmation and approval circled the council. Even Mauder had nothing to counter Kiran's, and effectively Ephraim's, proposal. Anna had already begun writing down the logistics of such an operation on parchment, speaking privately with Kiran over the matter, away from prying ears of the council.

"… Then who is to manage the draft and subsequent training?" Mauder muttered at last to the council. "Something like this won't be accomplished easily, not to mention cost a large sum of gold."

"You're a resourceful councilman." Ephraim taunted. "I'm sure you'll think of something. Whether Askr falls is no real concern of mine. Just don't come crawling back to me with your tail between your legs to clean up after your mess as you always did."

The councilman seethed with anger but stayed his tongue. Even if he was occupied, Kiran's presence alone had a profound effect on the normally acrid man. Before long, Kiran returned his attention to council.

"With that settled, let's bring our focus back to what this council was originally meant for."

"I've already explained the situation at hand to the council." Raven announced. "The plan is to march in a matter of hours. My unit is ready to advance."

"Excellent." Kiran said, nodding his head. "General Hector will maintain defenses of the capital while the other half of our army marches to support Captain Raven's vanguard. Prince Alfonse will also stay behind to manage the state and the Order. Princess Sharena and her division will be on standby in case anything happens. Commander Anna and I will be leading the army ourselves to intercept the Emblian forces."

Everyone nodded in response.

Kiran laid out his final command:

"The march to Tellius begins now. I pray the silent goddess watches over you all."

But Ephraim couldn't hear those words. No, his focus was elsewhere.

It was at the meeting's conclusion, he would have missed it if he blinked.

He swore that he saw Mauder smiling.

* * *

"Lord Ephraim, if I may just have a moment."

While tying his supplies to the horse he had been issued, Ephraim turned to see the crown prince of Askr standing behind him. He tightened the final knot on his saddle before turning to face the prince.

"What is it?"

"I overheard your suggestion at the council today from Ann—I mean—Commander Anna." Alfonse stated. "I'll cut to the point: we need someone of your intellect in the Order's council."

Ephraim's eyes narrowed. "What are you playing at here, prince?"

"Nothing at all, Lord Ephraim." Alfonse said, shaking his head. "I firmly believe that someone of your caliber is profoundly needed in the council."

"Are you so desperate as to recruit the help of someone as condemned as myself?" Ephraim questioned.

"My interests and goals are for the betterment of Askr and our people." Alfonse reasoned. "Your way of thinking can help the council strive towards that path. The plans you laid out today had the people of Askr in mind. The council could use qualities like that."

"That idea wasn't my own." Ephraim said. "It was a proposal thought up of by…" He hesitated for a moment. He knew he couldn't say her name here. Thankfully, Alfonse didn't press the matter further.

"Regardless, you voice your opinion for our civilian draft with the concern of the people at the forefront. Those sentiments align with the goals I have for Askr."

"If your interests are truly for the betterment of Askr," the lancer contested, "you'd know better than to enlist the help of, and endorse, someone like me publicly. The councilmembers won't like it. Nor would the people of Askr. I've seen their eyes, Alfonse. No one would willingly listen to the words of the man responsible for killing his own flesh and blood."

"But over time—"

"This isn't something time can fix, prince." Ephraim countered. "Nothing can wash away the past, I'm afraid."

The two stood there silently, juxtaposed as polar opposites from appearance alone. One stood proudly in the regal white and gold of the Order of Heroes, like a beacon of light and hope. The other stood in tatters, made up of broken armor, covered by wounds and haunted by ghosts of the past. It would seem absurd to anyone that the prince would even seek the help of such a man consumed by depravity. But yet, here they were.

"You have a good head atop your shoulders, prince." Ephraim began.

A look of genuine surprise crossed the prince's face.

"But you've also got a kind heart." The lancer stated. "Don't let it sway the former, lest you'll lose it."

"…"

Ephraim turned around and finished preparing his horse. Mounting his steed, lance in hand, he turned his mount towards where the vanguard was to converge.

"Tell me one thing, Lord Ephraim." Prince Alfonse demanded, his voice dwindling to a hush. "If you are so dead-set that the people will never forgive you nor accept you, why do you keep fighting? You said it yourself, the people will most likely never accept your help. You don't even recognize yourself as a hero. Yet why do you stay with the Order?"

The lancer stopped his horse. The air grew quiet. It was as if the world itself wanted to know his answer.

"Have you ever made a promise to a dying person? One that you know you wouldn't be able to keep?"

"N-no."

"Then you wouldn't understand."

Even though millions of thoughts swam across his mind, even though thousands of words skirted along his lips, Alfonse found that he could say nothing else. Instead, he stood there, quietly, only being able to see Ephraim ride away, leaving behind a question that he too had not be able to answer.

"…"

Suddenly, a thundering of hooves ran past the young prince, threatening to knock him aside. He barely managed to evade the horse. Thinking it was an enemy, Alfonse had reached to his side to draw his sword, ready to face the invader head on.

But upon looking up, he noticed that the rider rode with the Askrian banner at her side.

It was a courier rider.

But what message would have been important enough to warrant the Scourge Lord's sudden attention?

He saw the messenger ride alongside Ephraim momentarily, speaking only but a few words. Immediately, however, the lancer, turned away from the designated direction he was supposed to ride. Instead, he rode towards the opposite direction, away from the rendezvous point with the vanguard. Alfonse attempted to get the man's attention but to no avail.

He vanished in an instant.

Alfonse managed to flag down the courier that had nearly run him down moments before. The messenger quickly apologized for the danger she imposed on the prince but he brushed it off.

"What was the news you had to deliver to Lord Ephraim?" Alfonse inquired.

"I apologize for not being able to deliver the news to you first, milord." The messenger apologized. "You were absent from your quarters."

"Enough with the apologies." Alfonse demanded. "What was the news? Why was it so dire that it made Lord Ephraim leave so suddenly? Tell me at once."

"Right away." She nodded, "The vanguard unit that is deploying right now was reported to have visited the neighboring town of Hearth before the march began."

He raised an eyebrow. "Then what's the problem? What did you say that caused Lord Ephraim to react that way?"

"All members of Captain Raven's division have been accounted for after visiting the neighboring town of Hearth... all but two."

A sick feeling began to spread in his gut as he realized who he had placed in the vanguard due to Mauder's insistence. "Wh-who?"

The messenger took a deep breath.

"It's Marth and Genny, milord. They've gone missing."


	16. Chapter 15: In Strange Company

**(A/N): What is this? Another ANOTHER update? Why yes it is.**

 **I'm not dead yet.**

 **Here's another chapter. Please enjoy.**

 **Potential Spoilers ahead. Read at your own discretion.**

* * *

Marth could only gasp in awe at sights and smells that bombarded her senses. From the peals of children laughing to the savory scents of roasted meat that wafted from the cooking spits, these things were absent for so long in the desolate state of mind Marth had grown accustomed to. What should have been regarded as normal for many was in fact foreign and alien to her. This sense of normalcy was a far cry from the war she had been immersed in for what seemed like so long.

It felt like a small sliver of paradise in the vast desert of war that had stretched out before her. A distant dream she had desperately yearned for.

"I-I hope the town measures up to what y-you were expecting…" a timid voice squeaked. "And, I'm still sorry about… b-before…"

Tearing her eyes away from the splendor that patiently waited before her, Marth turned to see Genny several paces behind her, clutching her clerical staff tightly. Marth could see a hint of red still emanating from the young girl, a clear sign that she was still much embarrassed and apologetic from what she had done earlier.

Marth reached out and ruffled the timid girl's voluminous hair, smiling.

"Stop worrying so much Genny. It's fine."

The cleric let out a sigh of relief for perhaps the twentieth time, a reoccurring act that had been on display for their entire trek to the town.

Marth thanked the gods every step she took to the town that no one was near her tent when she stepped outside of it in nothing but her upper armor and underclothes. Not only would that have been quite the shameful display but the secret of her identity would have been made public.

But perhaps that itself wouldn't have been so bad, Marth mused quietly to herself on the latter. She had protected her identity for so long but for what exactly? She wasn't exactly in the Order to inspire hope in the troops like she had done back home. In fact, it was more of a hindrance than anything as she had to be careful with every action she took. Many in the army treated her as an equal. Knowing her comrades, they would most likely accept her if the truth ever came to light, even if they were surprised at first.

But that was an obstacle she would tackle another day. For now, she was here to enjoy herself.

"Have you been here often Genny?" Marth asked, motioning to the sights around her. It took a great deal of willpower to not simply run off like a giddy child seeing a festival for the first time, which, by extension, wasn't a completely inaccurate image. This was Marth's first time seeing such things after all, as far as she could remember. She was sure of it.

Genny cleared her throat, trying her best to stifle away any more awkward air she might give off. Doing her best, she entered her historian persona, complete with an authoritative voice and finger motions, albeit still stiffly.

"The town of Hearth is an Askrian village that lies close towards the frontier of the kingdom, named after its founder and the giant firepit he had to keep his people safe from the night. Due to how far it is from the capital city, and how close it is to the nearest Emblian establishment, there is a military presence nearby to ensure that the village is safe from marauders, brigands, and most notably Emblian invaders."

"I appreciate the history lesson, but I was asking if you personally have been here." Marth jibed, sheepishly.

Genny stared at her blankly before her fair skin resumed to its previous shade of crimson.

"O-oh… that's what you meant." She muttered before burying her face in her hands.

Marth laughed softly, at both the cleric's eagerness to recite the pages of history she read and at her uncharacteristic hiccups in conversation. It had grown endearing to the swordswoman.

After staying quiet for a moment, the meek girl replied with a quiet, "Yes."

"And is this the town where you met that mercenary fellow?"

"Hnnh!" she squeaked.

Marth chuckled to herself, amused by the young girl's innocence. For a battle-hardened cleric that General Hector spoke solemnly of, she was still a girl at heart, prone to the wills and banes of the heart. It pained Marth to see someone still so young at heart having to confront the terrors of war. It was a story all too similar to her own.

"Well," Marth said, turning around, "I hope you get the chance to see him today."

"Uwawa—I'm not ready!" Genny panicked. "I haven't treated my hair, I'm still in my cleric robes, I—oof!"

Alarmed at Genny's sudden cry, Marth swiftly turned around to see the young girl on the ground, having been knocked to the side, rubbing her sore rear. The culprit stood several steps away from the two. She was wearing a dirtied white shirt with leather riding trousers. Her flowing, fiery-red hair swayed like a flickering candlelight, set free by the cowl that had been strewn aside when she had collided with Genny. But perhaps even more striking than the girl's mane was the savage-looking scar that ran from the right edge of her forehead to the tip of her chin.

The remnant of a vicious attack.

The two stared down at each other, the air heavy with unspoken words. From Genny's point of view, it appeared as if time had crawled to a standstill. For Marth, her mind was racing, gauging whether the girl that had knocked Genny down was a potential threat, trying her best to emulate what Lord Ephraim's training had taught her.

The girl wasn't armed, anyone could see that, but there were a variety of ways to conceal a weapon. A dagger could have been lodged inside the shaft of the girl's boot or even tied behind her back. The girl could have been totally unarmed but that couldn't mean to lower one's guard.

The scar that glistened from the flickering torches that lined the village walls acted as a warning for Marth, a sign that the person before her was someone who should not be taken lightly.

Marth studied her options as quickly and carefully as she could. The masked swordswoman was armed and at an advantage, her silver blade resting unperturbed at her side, but was she willing to bring it forth, amidst the townspeople? No, that would put the innocent citizens into the crossfire, and she would not allow for innocents to be harmed by her hand. Such brutal methods would bring shame to the Order, something she could ill-afford to do. She was already harboring unwanted attention thanks in part to her mask. She had to stop her hand from touching it instinctively once the thought crossed her mind. She brushed off any further thoughts. It would be best to resolve this as peacefully as one possibly could.

Cooling her mind and returning a calm hand to the hilt of her sword, Marth opened her mouth to speak.

"I—"

"I'm sorry."

Before she got a full sentence out, the red-headed girl had abruptly apologized to the two soldiers, bowing curtly.

Dumbfounded, Marth uttered a simple, "I-I see."

Regaining her rigid posture, the girl spoke again. "Please forgive me rudeness. I'm awfully late to where I needed to be. I wasn't careful with where I was going and, well, you know the rest."

Offering a hand to the fallen cleric, the girl helped Genny back to her feet albeit with a slight shake in her step. Genny graciously thanked the mysterious girl, bowing profusely, before dusting herself off. The red-headed girl also helped straighten out Genny's ruffled clothes.

Marth saw the methodical and meticulous way the girl's fingers ran through the creases and hems of the cleric's robes. She was keen and adept at returning the once crumpled clothes to the prim and proper way they were before. Her movements and actions were not that of a commoner, whatever her outer appearance may belie.

Then what was a refined individual like herself doing in a town like this dressed like a common outlaw?

But just as Marth was about to ask for the girl's name, the girl bowed deeply once again.

"I'm sorry for my rudeness," she apologized. Marth could hear in her voice how genuinely the girl felt. Reaching into the pouch on her belt, the red-headed girl pulled out two shimmering gold coins. With an effortless flick, she tossed both coins towards Marth, who caught them with ease. In her hands, Marth could see that the coins were the real deal and not some fool's alternative.

"To pay for you and your friend's troubles," the girl added. "You'll be able to enjoy all that Hearth has to offer with those two coins, even the fortune teller's tent. You have my word on that."

Fumbling with the coins before pocketing them, Marth stumbled out an awkward, "Th-thank you."

The girl shook her head, brushing off Marth's gratitude. After fixing her cowl, putting it over her head and hair, the girl looked back one more time to bow before running off again.

Marth and Genny looked at each other. The situation had escalated and deescalated so suddenly in a matter of minutes that the two had exasperated expression on their faces. Surprisingly, Genny was the first to recover.

"W-well," she stammered. "We should make do with her gratitude."

Marth nodded unsteadily, "Yes, let's."

The adrenaline that had been pumping her body started to die down but the nervous tingling inside didn't go away. All the unused and unspent energy simply swirled within her, unsure of what to do.

"Perhaps something to eat will ease the nerves?" Genny suggested.

"Th-that sounds nice."

* * *

With room finally available, Marth eased her way to the bar counter. Hearth's roadside food stalls were all fantastic but she preferred the comfort of a drink over a counter over the endless walking. In the meantime, Genny said she was going to check out the fortune teller's tent to help them grab a spot. Marth insisted that she didn't want to participate but Genny put on a pouty face and would not budge. In the end Marth gave in to the cleric's whims and relented.

The girl's energy was boundless, always tugging Marth to go see or try something new in Hearth. Marth had already run out of fingers to count how many festival stalls they had visited. They did get some odd looks, particularly Marth, who was subject to the wary-looking eyes of many that they passed, probably due to her mask, but she did not pay much mind. After all, they were having fun, enough fun to rub off the edge of their encounter with the strange red-headed mercenary.

With a hand, she motioned to the bar maid, who glided over to the masked swordswoman with a mountain of drinks in tow effortlessly. She appeared no more older than Marth was. With a dazzling smile, she said, "What a fancy mask you got there, darling!"

Marth was taken aback by the maid's cheery comment. Not many commented on the mask she wore. The only one to give it any attention was Lord Ephraim, who showed his distaste for the whole thing. Embarrassed, Marth uttered a quiet, "Thank you."

"Is it for the Autumn Ball tonight?" the maid asked, amidst her work of handing out drinks.

"The what?"

"What?!" The maid exclaimed, with an incredulous look on her face. "You're wearing a mask but haven't heard of the Autumn Ball before?"

She shook her head sheepishly. Marth thought that her reaction would have disappointed the maid but instead she was getting giddy with excitement.

"The Autumn Ball is when a gentleman invites a special partner to a dance as the night draws to a close and break into the next dawn, and in doing it grants the two an everlasting bond." She recited, impressively. "It's a pretty old, but special tradition around these parts, with many esteemed people gathering from other parts of the kingdom to participate. Often, they wear masks to hide the fact that they were seen here. Many even say that the late king Domeric—Gods bless his soul—even participated to woo the queen!"

"I—I see." Marth replied, but she quickly shook her head. "But I'm not here for that, I'm afraid."

The maid shrugged but kept on smiling. "Well, don't count yourself out before you try it, love!" In what almost appeared as lightning fast speed, the maid had already finished handing out the colossal amount of drinks she had been previously holding. After wiping her hands on the towel tide at her waist, she turned back to Marth, as cheerful as ever. "Now, what can I… get for you?"

"Hmm?" Marth implored, curious at the maid's sudden pause. "Is there something amiss?"

The maid gave her a blank look for a couple more seconds before shaking her head, replacing the confused expression her face beheld with her usual cheery one.

"No, no, no! Please don't worry about it. I thought I saw someone I knew. Now! What can I finally get for you?"

Although taken aback by the maid's sudden change and cheeriness, Marth regained her balance. Clearing her throat, she ordered a honeyed mead, a rumored staple in Hearth. With an equally cheerful nod, the maid continued to go about her business to get Marth's drink as she took even more orders on the way. It was rather impressive.

"She's quite the workhorse that lass, isn't she?"

Surprised by the sudden words, Marth turned over her shoulder to see that a man had come to sit next to her at the counter. With streams of silver hair flowing from above, his face was also donning a mask. He must have been here for the Autumn Ball like the bar maid mentioned.

To the man's words, Marth nodded in agreement.

"Her family's been running this establishment for almost centuries now," the man said. "Soon, it'll be her turn to take over the reins at the bar."

"She seems capable enough." Marth stated. The maid's work ethic had attested to that. "Seems like she's running the whole place herself now though."

"She is indeed." The man nodded. "She's been taking over the bar ever since her mother had gotten sick last winter. But she refused to let that allow the bar to go under. Since then, she's been working as twice as hard. Illness, injuries, and even outlaws can't stop her."

Marth turned to the man with an inquisitive look behind her mask. The man must have caught on to Marth's expression in spite of her mask. He chuckled in response.

"Life is tough out here, by the frontier." He professed solemnly. "Askr may have gotten its priorities straight and established an army outpost nearby but before then, the people had to often fend for themselves."

Not knowing how to respond, Marth twiddled with her gloved fingers. Even though these kinds of things may have happened before she arrived, she still felt guilty for what the Order failed to do.

"She's already lost her father and brother to brigands." The man said. "That sort of news will drive anyone off the deep end, but here she is, smiling brighter than before." He then looked at Marth, a soft smile on his face. "Maybe Askr's Order has something to do with that."

For a moment, Marth felt as if the man knew who she was, or at least that she belonged to the Order. She hadn't mentioned anything about herself or the sort to the man. In fact, the weird feeling she was getting was that she himself knew who this man was. But how could she? He was a complete stranger. That's when she noticed the mask he was wearing again.

It was faded and cracked piece of work. Its days of glory had long since passed, leaving behind a husk of a mask that could no longer shine with the brilliance it may have possessed. But amidst its weathered appearance, Marth could make out traces of a master craftsman's handiwork along the mask's intricate design. While old and weathered beyond its years, the mask struck a chord with her. The way it was splayed out across the man's face, as if it had spread wings, swinging upward past his forehead and sloping downward, resting sharply alongside his cheekbones. The mask almost looked like—

"Here you are!" The bar maid announced with a voice to rival a roaring typhoon. In her hand was a near-overflowing mug of the honeyed mead Marth had ordered. Skillfully, she set the monstrous mug down before the swordswoman without spilling a drop. "One order of our honeyed mead! Hope you enjoy it love!"

Marth thanked her as she reached for the drink. Her lips were about to meet the mug's swirling top when—

"Why, if it isn't Azul!" The maid exclaimed, her hands clasped together. "You actually came!" Her tone took on an entirely different form of joy when she saw the man. Marth could tell that there was a shared history between the masked man and the maid, and also how enchanted the girl was with him. "Everyone, Azul's here!"

A wave of people converged on the bar counter, all eager to see the masked man. Marth almost had to jump to the side to avoid the stampede that came her way. They clamored with praise, some even offering to buy him a drink to which he all politely declined.

A burly, gruff-looking bearded man waded through the crowd and approached the masked man. Tapping Azul's shoulder and getting his attention, the man slipped several pieces of silver into Azul's hand, to which received gratefully.

"This was for dealing with…" The bearded man began to say.

Azul rested his hand on the man's shoulder. "You need not say anymore friend."

There was a brief silence. Then, the bear-like man burst into tears, a sob escaping through his gritted teeth and rock-like exterior. It was so sudden that even Marth was surprised. She had not expected a man like the one in front of her was capable of such fragility.

"When we heard… that she had been taken by the Hand… My wife and I thought we had lost our daughter forever…" the man managed to mutter in between his bawling. "Thank you, Azul… Thank you for bringing her back to us… Thank you…"

The two embraced, the bigger man threatening to nearly crush Azul but all the masked man did was smile gently. Then, in a swift motion that those with an untrained eye would have missed, Marth saw Azul settling the coins he had received from the man back into the man's own pocket. If Marth had blinked, she would have missed it.

"Alright, alright everyone. Show's over. Give us some room."

A blonde-haired girl in a dark-brown cloak stood atop the bar counter, towering above the crowd that eagerly wanted to greet with Azul, her hair billowing like a war banner. She was met with groans of disappointment but no one voiced against what she said. The sharp gaze she gave to all who may have said that she wouldn't take no for an answer. People began to recede back to their seats, some happy and others glum. Once the crowd had cleared, Marth saw Azul sigh with relief. Raising his head, he made eye contact, as best they could with masks, and grinned.

"Guess that greeting was more than what I had bargained for."

"Still, I'm surprised you came at all." The maid said as she slid him a fine glass cup that rested gently on a saucer. Inside was what could only have been tea.

Azul, laughed, brushing off the maid's comment with a motion of his hand as he reached for the teacup that seemed to have no place in bar. "Did you think I wouldn't have? Would've been awfully rude of me if I turned down an express invitation."

The maid smiled. "I'm just glad you showed up. I know you're busy with your work and all."

Azul shook his head, resting his head on his hand as leaned over the counter. "Business is slow at the moment. Our problematic work thrives on people's hardships."

"Oh, don't sell yourself short Azul. Had it not been for you, the festival this year may not have even happened."

"Refrain from flattering our leader." The blonde-haired girl chimed in at lightning speed. Marth had almost forgotten she was there. Given her timing, the young girl must have been used to doing such things. "It might get to his head. He won't be thinking with his head for the next hour."

Even though he was wearing a mask, Marth could tell that the man shot a look of absolute betrayal to his female companion. Still, he recovered rather quickly.

"Well, it's much too late for that now." He announced, a wide grin across his face. "And you're just upset there aren't any suitable men here, Relia. I couldn't see that lad from last—"

"Am not!" Her aloof face now burning bright. "And, why did you say either? Are you perhaps looking at the women yourself?"

He nearly spat out his tea. "Am not!"

The bar maid only laughed. It seemed as though she was used to the antics of the two. Perhaps they were regulars here, given their familiarity. The maid bellowed with laughter before resuming her work.

Marth finally took a sip of the sweet drink that lay untouched, the frothy yet cold liquid easing down her parched throat. While not an alcohol enthusiast, the taste was to her liking. She could tell why so many townspeople spoke fondly of the honeyed concoction.

"Ah, that's one of the bar's specialties, yes?"

Marth saw that Azul was looking over at her as she drank the mead. His friend seemed to be occupied with the mug she held at her mouth, the large cup looking almost silly in her maidenly hands, and too busy to continue arguing with the masked Azul. Marth nodded in response.

It was jarring to be talking to another person that was a wearing a mask, uncomfortable even. Was this how few others in the Order felt when they talked to her. She brushed these thoughts aside.

"The honeyed mead?" The blonde companion grinned, sidling up next to Marth along the counter. She had already downed her drink in mere seconds. "Finally, someone with good tastes. My partner here isn't too fond of alcohol—"

"And do you have something against that?" Azul declared, a fervor in his tone. "Personally, I find tea to be a much more suitable beverage—"

"Here we go again…" The girl muttered, rolling her eyes. "Tea this. Tea that. Frankly, I'm sick of hearing how regal and high-class tea is. It's just boiled leaves. Not to mention how gaudily expensive it is…"

Azul sighed. "Well at least you're half-right."

"Are you not having luck with your work?" Marth asked finally. She had grown amused with two's banter and was honestly curious about the masked man and his sharp-tongued companion.

The man nodded.

"Well, what do you do?"

"We solve people's problems. People come to us with things they want us to take care of and we see to it," Relia said before a momentary pause. A brief look of disgust shot across her face. "Provided that the task is within reason." She put a lot of emphasis on the word reason.

"Must be tough." Marth pondered. "So, what are you? Constables?"

Azul laughed heartily. "No, nothing fanciful as that I'm afraid."

"Then—?"

"Mercenaries." Relia uttered flatly, as if she were reading off the words on scrap of paper. "We're mercenaries."

"Mercenaries?" Marth said aloud.

At the very word, the bar had grown subtly quiet. The previously raucous conversations that occupied the atmosphere drew to a still. Marth glanced out of the corners of her mask, seeing several eyes shooting looks in her direction. Even the bar maid had frozen up a bit. It almost felt as if the word was taboo. The sudden change in the air was that oppressive.

"Mercenaries?" Marth repeated, this time much more quietly. The thought hadn't even cross her mind. Of course, mercenaries existed in this world too. People who fought for money. People whose loyalty could be bought with the jingles of coin. Commonfolk would normally be averse to individuals as such and who could blame them for being afraid? During war-torn times people would need to do all that they could to make money. Some chose more dishonest and bloodier means than others.

But it was hard to picture them, the laidback Azul and the sharp Relia, as mercenaries. The townsfolk seemed to adore them so much, especially Azul. If they bore so much animosity towards mercenaries, then why were they so welcoming of Azul and his partner?

Azul simply nodded. "It pays well. And it's growing in demand lately."

Marth looked around once again, hoping catch anyone still glancing their way. However, she found none.

"A lot of these people look up to you." Marth stated. "But when I mentioned the word mercenary, you could feel those very people shake in their boots."

Azul was silent, the only gesture he made being his playing with the near empty tea cup.

"Do they know that you are?" Marth inquired. "And given how adverse they are to people of your ilk, why do you even serve them? What made you?"

Azul sighed as he rubbed the side of his head. "Bit of a long story, but we're having a drink, so why not—"

"Boss."

"Relax, Relia. It won't take too long." Azul persuaded, as he motioned with his hand. "At least allow me to entertain our curious friend here before he gets the wrong impression of us."

"That's not the problem here." Relia exasperated. "You know we don't go around telling people about… well, never mind that… and, wait a minute, 'he'?"

"Relia."

Azul's soft voice had now grown hardened, his previously pleasant demeanor grinding to a halt. It made even the sharp-tongued Relia catch her words in her throat. Azul's voice wasn't even directed at Marth yet she could still feel the gravity of the man's intent all the same.

Marth shot glance at Relia. Her previously worried and frustrated expression had now been replaced with acceptance, albeit a begrudging one. She knew that whatever Azul was about to discuss was probably a sore subject for the two, Relia's reaction was a testament to that. But Marth felt obligated to know. After all, she served the Order now. The people of Askr's concerns were that of her own.

"It won't take longer than 5 minutes." Azul assured, his voice back to normal. He then quickly reached into the pouch that hang at his side and pulled out three silver pieces and tossed them to his subordinate. "Use these to pay for the drinks."

Relia looked at the coins in her hand and gave a quizzical look to Azul. "We only ordered two."

"Cover for our friend here, will you?" Azul ordered as he stepped off away from the counter. "And see to it that no one tails us."

She gave an offhand nod.

He gestured with his hand for Marth to follow after him. Clearly the mercenary did not want to speak where people might overhear what they had to say. Marth gave a quiet apology to the blonde mercenary who, frustrated, slumped back over on the bar counter, the hood of her cloak falling askew, shortly after Marth followed after Azul.

* * *

Azul had brought her away from the weary ears and eyes that trailed after her and into the secluded alleyway between the bar and the building that shouldered it. It felt as though the alley they had entered was a completely different place than the town Marth had been grown accustomed to. It was devoid of life and noise; the polar opposite of what Hearth was supposed to be. It made Marth uneasy.

Azul folded his arms and leaned against the wooden walls of the neighboring building. If anyone passing by saw the two masked figures in the alleyway as they presently were, it would have brought much unwanted attention. Miraculously, no one came by.

"I-I'm sorry about what I'm making you do." Marth apologized. "I have a bad habit of prying into other's business it seems…"

"You and me both…" Azul looked up, hesitant. Marth quickly caught on, knowing that Azul didn't even know her name.

"Marth. You can call me Marth."

The name gave momentary pause to Azul. "I-I see. Well, you and me both Marth. But before I start I want to ask you something."

Marth raised an eyebrow. What could someone like Azul possibly want with someone like her? The thought made her grow curious.

"A-ask away."

"You're still with the Order of Heroes, right?"

She nodded. "Yes, but is that all you were going to ask?"

He smiled, but it was different from the confident ones he had shown off in the bar. It was an uneasy smile. A sad one.

She had seen the same one on Lord Ephraim the few times she caught him by the Restoration Lady's statue by the Front Gate.

"Then, I'll cut to the chase." He paused. Evidently, his mind was afflicted by whatever he was about to say next.

"During the Battle of Lif, I saw a hero from the Order give her life on the battlefield. A hero this town was once very well-acquainted with."

"The Battle of Lif?" She knew not of what Azul spoke of but it sounded quite familiar. She then remembered the Kiran had asked her questions the night when she had finished her Trial.

The night she failed becoming a hero.

"I saw that person perish with my very own eyes. I even remember the last words she spoke."

He paused, his eyes clouded over.

"So then… why are you still alive?"

"Wh-what?"

Marth hadn't noticed in before but she could clearly see them now. Clear beads shimmering from the firelight had begun to slide down Azul's cheeks from below his mask. The glistening tears fell without as much as a sound.

"How the hell are you still alive, Lucy?"

* * *

 **END OF CHAPTER**


	17. Chapter 16: Walls Crumble

**(A/N): Hi, I am not dead. Please enjoy.**

* * *

The world came to a grinding halt. It was as if the vibrancy of life itself had been snuffed out. The cheerful voices that had filled the air and the warm light of the town had all grown dim. Even the stars that had twinkled so brightly in the sky seemed to waver.

It felt as though Marth was drowning once more. Her lungs screamed at her yet she made no sound. Her body wanted to run yet it could not move a muscle.

The words the man, Azul, had spoke nailed her to ground, paralyzing her.

"How are you still alive…?"

Then, a searing, white-hot pain tore through her, coursing through her veins, running down her spine. The flames of this agonizing pain tore all the way to her head. With a guttural cry that seared from her throat, Marth collapsed to her knees.

"H-hey!" Azul exclaimed, his voice taut with concern, rushing to her side. "What's wrong? Are you alright?"

The world was spinning. The dim colors of the world began to warp. Flashes of white seared her vision. Throughout it all, the pain never left. The burning pain was the only thing to remain. Pain excruciating enough to torment her vision.

But that's when she saw it.

It was for but a brief moment. But what she was as clear as what the world once was. It was the blade she had yearned to see again for the so long.

Falchion.

But it wasn't in her hands. No, in the instance she saw it, she didn't see it in the reunion she had been desperately waiting for so long.

Her hands were nowhere near the blade. In fact, Falchion's blade was nowhere to be seen. Instead, all Marth saw was the hilt, the familiar pommel and grip.

It was the only visible part of the blade as the rest was buried within her chest.

The moment the image crossed her tormented mind, and piercing cold had taken root in her heart, her blood freezing over.

"Lucina, snap out of it!"

A resounding smack echoed through the empty alleyway, a white flash appearing before Marth's eyes, a sting spreading across her left cheek. Instantly, Falchion disappeared from her sight, bring Marth back to the world from beyond what she had just seen. Even most of the pain had disappeared.

But the hollowness that had been carved inside her heart remained.

As soon as Marth turned her gaze to Azul, he bowed apologetically.

"S-sorry. You suddenly went stiff, as if you were frozen. I called out to you and even shook you but you wouldn't respond. I was running out of options. Please forgive me."

Marth touched her cheek where Azul had slapped her back to consciousness. It still slightly stung, the skin around her cheek slightly swollen from the force of the blow. As her slender fingers grazed the skin of her face, all she could feel was how cold her skin had felt to the touch.

Everywhere except for where Azul had touched.

She felt a semblance of warmth where Azul's hand had struck. Something about its warmth gave her an air of familiarity.

But not much more.

"It's fine…" Marth finally said, her voice barely a whisper. Her thoughts were running in hundreds of different directions. She barely had time to recollect her own thoughts on what she had just witnessed when Azul began to speak.

"What made you just… freeze like that?"

Marth fell silent. How could she even begin to explain to anyone what she had just seen? From Azul's reaction, she couldn't have been gone stiff for much more than a fraction of a minute but the vision she had seen went for much longer.

And she had only seen a fragment of it.

Marth shook her head. "I don't know. My head just went blank…" She lied.

Azul was quiet for a moment. It was hard to tell what he was thinking with a mask covering his face but the same should have applied to Marth as well. She prayed that the mercenary wouldn't try to pry past her obvious lie. To her complete surprise, he didn't press the issue any further.

Azul helped Marth to the stone steps that crested the outside of a run-down building in the alley. Even in a small, yet bustling town as this decay persisted. Where life thrived, so did its counterpart. The thought made Marth wince as she slowly settled herself onto the cobblestone steps. Azul parked himself several steps away, leaning against the wooden boards of a neighboring building, his hands resting idly against his frame. He seemed drained of strength, much more so than Marth herself.

Marth recalled back to what Azul had asked her, against her better judgment.

Are you still with the Order of Heroes? How are you still alive? Azul had prefaced the entire thing by telling her of a hero he knew who had perished on the battlefield. And how that supposed hero was supposed to be Marth.

No, that name was just a mask.

Lucina.

As soon as the name, her name by birth and right, crossed her mind, a deep sadness welled inside of her body. It was one of the few bastions of her fractured memory she still had left, a memory she knew by all that was true to be her own. She clenched her hands together, as if to hold onto the thought with all the strength she could muster. It was a foolish notion but it was all she had left.

This world's Lucina perished on the battlefield. The man before had solidified that for her. Even the sparse conversation between Kiran and Prince Bruno on the night of her Trial only further confirmed her suspicions. Even the Trial she had endured in the Tears of Spirits, at the complete mercy of the goddess of this world, the very hardship that made her question her legitimacy as a hero, sunk the knife deeper.

The Order and Azul clearly knew something about her she didn't. But one thing was true:

In this world, Princess Lucina was no more.

Then was that what she had seen? The fractured memory that tore through her mind like a whirlwind? Where her beloved blade Falchion had to rest inside her chest?

Was that her final moments she was witnessing one more time?

Marth briefly looked up at Azul. His aged mask dangled before his neck, his hair disheveled. He seemed to be consumed by thought as much as she was. As to what he was thinking about, Marth could not tell but the deep forlorn and emptiness in Azul's visible eye, his left, was telling enough.

He was thinking about the death of the hero he knew, a death he had borne witness to with his own two eyes.

Then the sudden realization came to Marth. It was like a crashing tidal wave.

But he didn't want to know.

How could she? It was ironic. The one opportunity she finally had to learn more about who she was and finally resolve the demons that tormented her rested merely an arm's reach away but every voice in her body fought against it. Even when she opened her lips to speak, her mouth ran dry, void of what her mind intended to say. She bit hard against her lip, enough to break skin.

A deep warmth began to flow from the edge of her mouth. It slowly ran to the edge of her chin before it dripped away, dotting the stone beneath her feet with a deep crimson. The blood shone brightly back at her, glistening with the moonlight and all the stars that seemed to have rekindled above. It reflected her face, the masked vestige that she had lived with for so long, the face of a stranger she had come to terms with. As more blood fell, more and more of the masked faces stared back at her, all of their eyes staring into her own.

Marth's hands reached for bloodied lip. Its warmth still radiating against her long, cold fingers.

"I'm still alive." She muttered to herself.

She clenched her hand, driving her blood-covered finger to the palm of her hand.

Yes, she was still alive. Her story hadn't ended with the death of Lucina. She had to strengthen her resolve. If she ever wanted to make it back home, this was the only way forward. She was sure of it.

She loosened her hand and turned to Azul whose empty eye was as vacant as before.

"You said you witnessed her death, right?"

Immediately, Azul was jolted back to consciousness, the life coming back into his eyes. Still, the melancholic air remained. Lacking the liveliness he had previously had, he nodded sluggishly. Marth knew that the man that stood before had his own demons as well but the two would not be able to move forward if all they did was dawdle in their weakness. Marth did notice the slight shiver in Azul's frame when she did not refer to the Lucina of this world as herself but someone else.

"How… how did she die?"

Azul kicked himself off the wall he leaned against. In a single bound, he was already only but a footstep in front of her.

"Do you really want to know?"

His voice contained no malice. Yet, there was an ominous force behind it. A foreboding warning. His words were telling her that there was no going back from this point forward.

She had already resolved within herself that she would be ready for whatever came next.

Gulping one last time, as if casting away her doubts, Marth nodded.

"I do."

Azul took a step back from where he stood. His sharp gaze darted at blazing speed around the alley. When his eyes finally returned to lock with Marth's own, her heart was already pounding, awaiting his answer.

"It was a suicide mission. One no one would have come back alive from. There, she met her end, at the end of her own blade, by the man she had come to love." He gritted his teeth. "She was sent to her death, by the people she shed her blood and tears for."

His eyes pierced straight into her own, as if peering into her soul.

"The Order of Heroes killed her."

* * *

 **End**


	18. Chapter 17: From the Eaves

**Author's Notes: That was a long break. Sorry I was gone for so long. Life was in full swing and I hardly had time for even myself.**

 **Enough excuses. Here's what you came for. Please enjoy.**

* * *

Relia had been resting idly against the wooden benches in front of the bar when the foreboding clatter of armor had wrested her attention from the coin she held in her hand. Instinctively, she reached for the bow she had always slung behind her back only for her gloved fingers to grasp empty air. She clicked her tongue at her leader's suggestion prior.

It was out of Inigo's insistence that she not bring her weapon, her most prized possession. He warned that carrying a fearsome weapon in the public's eye may bring unease to the people of Hearth, a town with wounds from the war still running deep and far. She couldn't do any thing else but comply to her leader's orders, even if it meant disobeying the tenant she was brought up with by Lady Luna.

"A lady must never be without her necessities: her wit and her weapon."

A gift from her liege, Relia's bow was crafted from the finest bowyers in Embla with no expense spared. Pieced together with the bones of the ancient behemoths that once walked the lands of Zenith and enchanted wood from the Isle of Evergreen, many compatriots had commented on the enchanting beauty of the fearsome weapon.

Relia almost felt naked without it. The innocuous humming that radiated from the wood of the bow was a familiar comfort that she would rarely go without. It was something she pined dearly now.

As unnerved as she was to be without it however, Relia would have done the same a thousand time over, as her liege had told her, and prided, above all else, one must follow orders, no matter what personal feelings may get in the way.

Relia wondered how different things would have been had Lady Luna lived true to her own words but the crunching of dirt beneath boots and clang of armor was much closer now. Casting aside all her previous thoughts, Relia saw the few people that remained in the streets immediately take shelter in their homes. Judging the clamor of the armor, Relia knew that whatever was marching towards the town square was beyond what she could take on her own.

Looking to her side, and at the wooden beams of the bar's front that climbed at least three stories, Relia quickly scaled the building, her limber arms and legs letting her move around like a cat, and swung herself onto the roof of the bar, behind the railings that dotted the wooden roof.

Quietly, she waited for the armored figures to appear, her hands resting at her back, ready with the ashen dagger that she had pickpocketed from the unsuspecting Marth. She crouched, patient.

Then, from the left of where she had been sitting moments before, emerged a small platoon of armored soldiers, escorting a man in shabby, wool cloak. Relia could tell the man wearing the cloak was thinly-framed due to how much the garb billowed with its wearer's every move. She noted the man's apparent discomfort in wearing such clothing, with the subtle pulls he made at his robes and his constant visual assessment of his appearance, which carried the stark air of disapproval.

It was clear that the man before her was a noble in disguise. No one would dress and behave so boorishly in an attempt to blend in. Still, as shoddy as the cloak was, it hid the identity of its bearer well enough. As she was pondering which nation the cloaked man belonged to, Relia saw the sudden shift in the convoy's gaze. She followed where their eyes led her.

From the opposite end, another man made his way towards the armored convoy, an obvious limp in his step. It wasn't the shamble of a drunkard or the hobble of an elder man. It was the laborious trudge of a wounded man. Not a fresh one, but a wound lasting enough to cripple one for life.

Judging how gingerly the man stepped upon his bad leg, it was obvious that the injury involved a broken bone that healed improperly in the past. Probably by spear, Relia thought to herself. The slash of a sword toward that part of the leg would have killed a man instead.

Keeping her eyes glued on the two mysterious men that had gathered in the square, Relia bated her breath and observed silently. The figures stood several meters apart, giving off the air that there was some heated history and tension between the two men. The wiry man's guards stood at the ready against the crippled man. Relia saw visible disappointment wash over the thin man's face as the crippled one explained something with an exasperated air. It seems a business transaction had gone awry.

The crippled man began yelling. Relia leaned closer to snag a listen.

"You said five!... contract… demanded five!"

The thin man shook his head and a bony finger, as if he were scolding a misbehaving child. It seemed to have the opposite effect as it only aggravated the man further.

"I kept up… bargain." The crippled man growled aloud, his voice filled to the brim with malice. "I'll even throw in the cleric girl… I've kept my word."

The thin man shook his head. And from far away, Relia could read his lips:

"More."

A chill ran through her spine. The people she saw before her were no ordinary scoundrels. They were the worst of the filth that contaminated the land:

Human traffickers.

She held nothing but contempt for such vile trash. The hand that held the dagger only gripped it tighter. It was as if Relia was trying to break it by her hand alone with the anger that coursed through her veins.

"That life is behind me now." She muttered to herself, trying to calm herself down. "… it's all behind me…" Dark emotions and memories ran rampant in her mind like relentless waves upon a shore. Biting the inside of her mouth, she kept those repressed thoughts in check. She turned back to the transaction.

The two men seemed to have reached a mutually satisfied conclusion now, their deal at an end. The crippled man now held a pouch that undoubtedly contained payment for his crimes. The thin man muttered some words that Relia could not hear. Whatever those words were, the crippled man did not respond back with his own. All he did was glare back at his "benefactor".

The guards must have not liked his behavior as they immediately drew their spears and pointed them towards him. The thin man gestured for the armored soldiers to withdraw their weapons to which all begrudgingly complied.

Except for one.

One guard kept his lance pointed at the crippled trafficker, refusing to back down. The thin man's enraged yelling did nothing to dissuade the man.

Then, like a whip, the armored soldier shot forward, thrusting his weapon in tandem. The crippled man would have nowhere to run.

He didn't need to.

The soldier was undoubtedly a well-trained and skilled spearman, adept in the arts of combat whilst be heavily armored. The way he utilized his weapon of choice and moved about was testament to his caliber.

Which was all the more shocking that he lay on the ground, unmoving, his proud weapon cast aside like a literal stick in the mud.

Relia almost couldn't believe her eyes. It had all happened in a fraction of a second.

The lancer had thrust his weapon towards the trafficker's injured leg, as if to force the offender to live through his punishment prior. With a damaged leg as his, there would be no way to evade such an attack unscathed…

Unless he was never that injured to begin with.

The man quickly raised his leg to completely dodge the spear thrust. And before the armored guard had an opportunity to realized what had happened, the "injured" man brought his foot down on the flat side of the spear, tearing it from the guard's hands.

But before the spear hit the ground and carried its momentum with it, the man shot his free, and uninjured, foot forward, kicking it back up to guard. The spear's pole shot past the guard's arms and hit him square in the only unguarded part of his face.

His chin.

And as the guard was disoriented, the man quickly gripped the lance and, like a whirlwind, swung it full-forced at the guard's head.

There was deafening thud and a sickening crack as the heavily armored soldier fell over like a statue.

The trafficker threw the spear to the ground before continuing to walk away. The guards looked helplessly at the unmoving body of their comrade before turning to look at their leader who gave no further instructions. With a snap of his finger, the thin man and his group began departing, leaving behind the body of the fallen soldier.

Soon, all was quiet.

Relia bit her lip. She had to find Azul, no, Inigo, fast. She had to tell him that the town was currently in danger. There was absolutely no time to waste. She had to get to—

"Going somewhere?"

Relia turned as fast as she could, the knife in her hand already beginning it trajectory to the menacing voice behind her.

She couldn't figure out what happened next.

She saw the charcoal-colored knife coming loose from her hands and numbness spreading down her forearm. And before she had a chance to see that a wall of an arm had parried her attack, her face was met with what felt like a battering ram. Her vision flashed bright. The pain hadn't even registered yet.

Lady Luna would have killed her if she had seen the pitiful display she had just shown.

She could hear her liege's piercing shrill and barrage of insults beyond the ringing in her ears... It was almost... nostalgic.

As her legs crumpled from below, and her vision faded, she could barely make out the flowing hair of her adversary in the torchlit sky.

It was sea-green.

* * *

 **End of Chapter**


	19. Chapter 18: Unlikely Proposition

Hello and welcome to one of my fastest updates for this story. Free time is an amazing gift. I did want this to come out on Saturday but time is a fickle thing. But, here it is at last.

And with that, I'll stop griping. Here's what you came for.

Enjoy.

* * *

When Lord Ephraim had requested for her help, Fir didn't realize it would come to this.

The Scourge Lord had come blazing through the woods atop his steed just before the vanguard was to march to the gates of Tellius. His sudden appearance, with his flowing sea-green hair and savage visage, shocked everyone in the unit, Fir included. And to further her surprise, he had come seeking aid. Or to be more specific, her aid.

Rather, it was him making good of the favor Fir had acquiesced to him upon their first meeting, on the way to the war council tent. She almost forgot she had actually said that in passing. A small voice in the back of her head was beginning to regret that she had offered such an unconditional deal.

After all, how was she supposed to know that Ephraim needed her help in kidnapping someone?

Their captive, now bound tightly, courtesy of Fir, still didn't move as she lay against the wooden planks of alleyway buildings. Lord Ephraim had subdued her so easily, it was like watching a grown adult beat down a mere child.

Actually, it was exactly just that.

The girl, still unconscious, looked even younger than Fir, who herself was just ripe into her own maidenhood. Her weight further proved her youth, Ephraim being able to carry the girl with just an arm as he scaled down the building Still, she knew that the two could take no chances. When Ephraim and Fir had made their way into Hearth, Fir was able to see the girl's colleague before he disappeared: the fabled dancing mercenary.

Fir didn't know the man's name but she heard tales of him, both on and off the battlefield. Genny made sure of it. He was an ex-Emblian field commander whose talent with blade could rival some of the finest in the Order. No one knew the reason as to why he abandoned his loyalty to Embla. One day he was among their finest duelists. The next, he became the masked mercenary that fought for neither side.

Fir had confirmed the reports too. In her free time, many moons ago, she had actually gone to one of the Order's debriefing assemblies, and past all the stuffy bureaucratic and political jargon, and overheard that three of Embla's field commanders had suddenly up and abandoned their posts, never to return. Captain Raven was acquainted with one of them, as he had served in the Emblian regiments before he turned his blade against them, but it wasn't the dancing swordsman. Instead, it was a woman with a temper next to none could hold a candle to. Her hair was as red as the fire that broiled her blood.

Apparently, that woman was the dancer's wife.

The third commander, a talented dark mage with a penchant for theatrics, had vanished altogether from Zenith. The dancer and the demon woman were at least seen together but the mage never made his presence known to anyone, may it be his compatriots or enemies.

Their true identities were still a mystery. All Genny had said was that they never revealed their true names to anyone. Broaching the subject made Fir's head spin. She was more comfortable with swinging a sword than she was swimming in the pool of her own thoughts. Uncle Karel had taught her the value of meditating whenever one could off the battlefield but she was but a mere novice at such a refined practice.

Still, no matter how green someone was, they could still control their breathing.

In, Fir quietly thought to herself, softening the pace of her lungs, out.

In, out.

It didn't help that there was still the unconscious body of a stranger in front of her.

She would practice with Roy the next time she got a chance.

"She's going to be fine." Ephraim said, as if to put Fir's thoughts at ease. "It was only enough force to keep her pacified until we figure out what to do."

Pacified? Fir felt that Ephraim's method was more geared towards obliterating targets rather than subduing them. The nasty welt on the poor girl's face was more than enough proof of that.

But the terrible scar that ran parallel to the injury foretold of much worse things the girl had been through.

How one could survive such a wound to somewhere so vital, Fir could only wonder.

"Here."

Ephraim's gruff voice pulled her away from mulling in her thoughts again. Looking up towards the Scourge Lord, Fir saw that he held a familiar object in his hands.

It was Roy's dagger, the one Matthew had given to him as a gift.

Roy said proudly that it was one of his prized possessions, after the sword and armor his father had left him.

He had told Fir that he spent an entire afternoon and evening scouring around Askr looking for it but came up with nothing. Why was it here with the mercenary girl?

"Marth was the one that had the dagger." Ephraim answered again, reading Fir's mind. "The mercenary here must have pilfered it off of him when his guard was down. Keep your guard up when she wakes up."

His response only further exacerbated her questions regarding the dagger but she saved them for later. Instead, Fir accepted the weapon graciously and gingerly tucked it away in her pouch.

"Your partner will be pleased to have that returned back to him." Ephraim added as he reexamined the knot he tied around the mercenary's legs. "So, try not to die."

Fir felt her ears grow hot. She could only guess at what Ephraim meant by "partner" but her relationship with Roy was no real secret at this point.

Originally, she was against making a big fuss out of her relationship with Roy but he insisted that several members ought to know, particularly Hector. The general was as happy as can be despite the turbulent days that surrounded them, happy as if Roy were his own son.

For Lord Eliwood was no longer here, much like her own father.

But Fir had to set aside these somber thoughts. Instinctively, she set her hand around the prized blade that rested at her side, gripping it tightly.

Their prisoner began to stir from her slumber.

* * *

Relia's head was still spinning, her vision blurry, her hearing muddied.

She reached for her face only to find her arms tightly bound to her back. The sting of the rope against her wrists instantly cleared the fog that clouded her head. She tried moving her legs only to find them in a similar state. Her pulse quickened.

She was trapped.

"You're finally awake."

It was the same voice she had heard before she was struck unconscious.

Relia's eyes darted around the dark alleyway, trying to find the owner of the coarse voice. Fighting through the darkness of the unlit alley, her eyes came to a halting stop when they encountered the crackling embers that dotted a shattered chestplate. Following the trail of cinders, Relia finally saw who the voice belonged to.

The flowing sea-green hair. The broken armor littered with the dying remnants of a fire. Those piercing eyes awash with vindictive grief.

They were unmistakable.

"So he's actually returned…" Relia muttered to herself. "… Scourge…"

Many of the Heroes that filled the ranks of the Order were all those stood out from the pages of history, but the Scourge Lord of Renais was a peculiar one. By all means, he should have fought for Embla, given his violent past and tendency to resort to ruthlessness. He was known for his sheer power at decimating entire brigades of soldiers alone with his fearsome, flaming lance. Even Inigo and Lady Luna were wary to steer clear from him. His very mention would strike fear into many a soldier's heart. Relia couldn't deny that herself.

But one day he had disappeared. That was many seasons ago. After the Battle of Lif, nobody from Embla and Askr alike knew where the lancer had gone. It was as if he had vanished from Zenith itself, leaving not a trace for even the most expert spymaster to follow.

The information network had spread that the Scourge had returned to Zenith and Relia felt stupid for ignoring the signs and whispers that came her way. The reports were obvious as day. No one man could dislodge an entire invasion force of Embla alone. But here she was, completely at the ruthless lancer's mercy, with no escape in sight.

While her face remained tight-lipped, an unmistakable sensation many would call dread had begun to spread to every recess in her body.

Still, a question lingered, one that prevented fear from overriding all of her senses.

Why hadn't he killed her yet?

If the Scourge's objective was to hunt down Emblians, or ex-Emblians in her case, why hadn't he, the man responsible for the deaths of the countless, killed her yet?

Did he not view her as a threat? If he had subdued her, an adept at nearly all forms of combat, with nothing but a single blow, then surely that would have been the case. But she was bound, unable to move freely. Why the precaution?

She had to find out what his motive was.

"Should I consider it an honor or insult that you haven't killed me yet?" She bluffed, putting on a braver front than what she truly felt. "Didn't think you of all people would be so afraid of me and need to tie me up."

Ephraim was unfazed.

"You're tied up to make sure you don't try anything stupid."

"Do I look like the type to do anything stupid?"

"Please!... Don't make this harder on yourself!"

A voice that didn't belong to either of them, and one Relia did not recognize, pierced the suffocating air.

From behind the Scourge Lord's broad shoulders, Relia could faintly make out the outline of person that stood there. Judging by the slim frame, and even in the dark, Relia knew it was that of woman. From the shadow's posture, the woman had her hand by her side, resting on the hilt of what only could have been a blade.

The woman stepped closer, close enough where the dim light of the town cast its light. Relia strained her eyes to make out the finer details she couldn't see before.

She was a female swordsman, with refined features to boot. Her long, lavender hair was neatly tied towards the back before sprawling wildly past her shoulders. She was obviously trained in the eastern arts given the way she behaved with her blade. The swordswoman was not much older than Relia, her youthful futures still yet to recede. And those youthful features were now contorted to be filled with concern.

Genuine concern.

"Please." The girl pleaded. "We only want to talk."

The bruise on her face began to ache.

She would have rubbed it if she could.

"I get the talking, but I don't see how knocking me out cold and binding me up qualifies as 'talking.'"

"It's for your own good." Ephraim snapped. "Lest you want to lose your arm."

Relia privately agreed that she'd rather keep both of her arms. She sighed.

"What does the Scourge Lord want with me personally that he graces me with his presence?"

Ephraim took a step forward, his armor crackling. He motioned an arm to the girl behind him. She must have quickly understood what he meant because she rummaged through the pouch she had slung on her side. After having found what she was looking for, the swordswoman tossed the object to Ephraim.

Catching the object with ease, Ephraim rested it against Relia's cheek. It was cold as ice.

And very sharp.

The girl involuntarily gasped and Relia had understood why after a moment.

A thin stream of blood had trickled its way down her cheek from the object had greeted her. Strangely enough, she felt no pain.

"Why did you have this?" Ephraim asked, ignorant of the wound he had inflicted.

"Can't see it from this angle." Relia retorted, her tone defiant. She wasn't sure how long she could keep up the act. She acted plenty of times in the past, but during none of those times was she ever filled with as much fear as she was now.

"Then would you like me to remove your eye so that you can?" Ephraim asked, his voice betraying nothing, the knife still held firmly in his hand.

"L-lord Ephraim… please." The girl begged.

As juvenile as the girl's attempt at stopping Ephraim was, it surprisingly worked. Ephraim closed his eyes for a moment before removing the sharp tip from Relia's face. She winced as the blade retreated from her cheek, allowing the evening air to greet her exposed, bleeding wound as more blood began to pour now that the knife no longer plugged it.

Ephraim held the sharp weapon mere inches away from her face. Even in the dark, she could make out exactly what was held before her. Ephraim asked her again, the knife seemingly closing in with every word.

"Where did you get this knife?"

She had little reason to deny the lancer an answer.

"I got it from a swordsman fellow, much like you." Relia answered, gesturing towards the girl. "Very mysterious one, that one."

Ephraim raised an eyebrow, the first change in expression Relia was able to see. Even though he said no further words, his eyes alone demanded that she continue her explanation.

She had no qualms in doing so.

"Short, wild hair and dons a mask" Relia began. "Thought it was for the festival but she's wearing it to hide her identity. And it looks oddly familiar to Ini—"

"She?" The girl asked, perplexed. "Aren't we talking about Marth?"

Relia clicked her tongue. Inigo did tell her to be wary of her word choice back in the bar. Marth's ruse was easy to uncover for anyone with a careful eye. The way she walked, carried herself, and stood her ground was undoubtedly that of a woman. Relia had pondered earlier as to why "Marth" would have to hide her identity but didn't think about it too deeply.

Everyone has secrets they keep from prying eyes.

"Anyway," Relia continued, before the conversation derailed. "Marth had business with my captain and the two haven't been seen since. I took the knife from Marth as they were drinking at the bar. That's all."

Ephraim stood up and whipped the blood off the knife with a clean stroke before handing it back to Fir.

"Where's your leader?"

Relia shook her head. "I don't know… Last time I saw them, they were—"

Then it hit Relia like a wall of bricks.

What the hell was she doing?

The memories of what she saw before being knocked out came flooding back to her.

The human traffickers.

The transaction.

The cloaked man's words: "More."

She had to find Inigo.

Hearth was in danger.

Ephraim must have noticed the change in her demeanor. Yet, he did nothing. He was still waiting for an explanation to which Relia had none.

She had no time to waste. But why was were mind in pieces? She knew what she needed to do and where she needed to be. But why couldn't she tell them that?

The binds around her arms and legs did little to alleviate her panicked mind. In fact, all they did was further exacerbate her pressed mind, the sharp pain of bound rope only dredging up painful memories of the past.

"Lord Ephraim!"

There, from the corner of her eye, Relia could make out the shimmering figure clad in white and blue armor that shone in the dark, poised gallantly against the more sinister-looking lancer.

Like a knight in shining armor.

"Prince Alfonse!" The girl exclaimed, dropping to a knee.

The crown prince of Askr? Relia thought to herself. What the hell is he doing here?

The prince rushed past the two and went straight to Relia. Kneeling beside her, he pulled out a gauze and fabric and held it against Relia's wound.

"Are you alright, milady?"

The prince's pure, blue eyes entered her own. A warm feeling flushed over Relia, the pain and panic that had coursed through her veins subsided, filling her with a gentle calm.

"Y—yes. I'm alright." She managed.

"I apologize for Lord Ephraim's demeanor." The Prince said. "He can be… rough."

Relia shook her head. "Been through worse."

Ephraim didn't kneel nor did he bow. He stood quietly, unperturbed at the prince's sudden arrival, an air defiance swirling about him.

"I—I'm sorry, milord." The girl, Fir, apologized, bowing. "I—I"

"Don't be. It was much easier to locate both of you this way."

A voice came from behind the prince. From the alley's shadows emerged a dashing man, clad in red hunting garb with golden locks.

With his elegant poise and sharp eyes, he was undoubtedly an archer. And if it weren't for the situation Relia's heart would be aflutter.

"Don't you have somewhere to be right now, Alfonse?" Ephraim asked, his voice deadpan.

"Indeed I do." Alfonse replied. "But after hearing the news, I feared the worst."

Relia could see Ephraim's eyes widen momentarily. "What news?"

"There was a festival taking place tonight in Hearth." The golden archer interrupted. "Perfect time for many unsuspecting people to gather together, unwary. Perfect time for brigands to seize their prey."

Alfonse nodded. "We figured that's where Marth and Genny may have been taken."

Relia recalled the trafficker's ringleader saying something about a cleric girl being taken as well. It seems the Order and its heroes knew how to do their homework.

"Have we figured out where they are located?" Ephraim asked, breaking his silence.

Jeorge nodded. "I did a bit of surveillance and saw a pooling of people around the southern side of the town. Armed guards are at every corner. Not the friendliest of company, which is a surefire sign that's where our M.O. is."

"Then we should head there soon!" Fir suggested. "If they are human traders, they will be making a trade soon. Time isn't something we can't afford to lose!"

"Someone is finally speaking my language," Relia muttered to herself.

"We can't just up and go and make our presence known to the whole world." Jeorge explained, shaking his head. "The brigands know the area much better than we do. Going about our business carelessly would be akin to sprouting a deathtrap and putting civilians in danger. That is something we cannot afford."

Relia's idea of them all storming the brigands soured.

All eyes, except Ephraim's, floated around, trying to find an answer apparently along the wooden walls of the alley buildings.

A sudden brilliant idea flashed in Relia's mind. One that would have probably made Lady Luna proud.

"Ahem. Can I interest in you fine fellows with a proposition?"

Alfonse looked perplexed and nearly dropped the cloth he held to her cheek. "What are you talking about, miss…"

"Relia."

"Yes, Miss Relia." Alfonse said, nodding apologetically. "What do you suggest?"

"You said you needed help from someone who knows the land well." Relia reasoned before flashing her most charming, and devilish, smile. "And I've got just the person for that."

The members of the Order exchanged glances. "Explain." Their voices, unison.

"How would you like to hire yourselves some mercenaries?"

* * *

 **END of CHAPTER**


	20. Chapter 19: Shite for Honor

**(A/N): Hey guys. Here's the next chapter. This has been in writing hell for the last three weeks because I was super unhappy with how it was going but I finally got it down. Hope you enjoy.**

 **Thanks.**

* * *

The world felt like it was on fire.

For Genny, that was very much the case.

What had happened in the last several hours were nothing but a hazy mess.

She remembered walking up to the fortune teller's tent and everything prior with perfect clarity, even that one scary cloaked girl that had ran into her.

She entered the tent and saw the shrouded fortune teller, complete with the usual crystal ball and wavy hand tricks. Genny remembered asking if she could reserve a spot for her and Marth to which the fortune teller nodded in response. She remembered the elated feeling she felt as she raced out of the tent to go tell her masked friend of their appointment.

And she turned the corner to the bar, she remembered the force a thousand bulls crashing against her head.

Then nothing.

Instinctively, her shaky hand went to touch the massive bruise that lined her less than delicate skull. It stung to the touch, with every pulsation of her heart only echoing the pain further. Too dazed to even cry out in pain, all Genny managed was a subdued croak that not even a hunting hound would have been able to hear.

But the beasts she was dealing with her far more trained, and far more worse, than any hound.

"Awake naw, litt'l lassie?"

From the corner of the dark room lit only by a single candle came a voice that bore nothing but ill will. The person it belonged to was just as sinister.

Stepping into the faint light of the room, Genny could just make out the person that stood before her.

He was gaunt and lanky, his skin a sickly sand awash with dark splotches. His eyes were as black as the darkness he emerged from, offset only by the crooked, yellow-stained teeth that decorated his ghoulish visage. With a face that was close to a skull, the man appeared more dead than alive.

But his movements belied any such trace of decay.

The man moved like a shadow, gliding across the floor with ease, faster than any normal man could. It was almost as if Genny's eyes were playing tricks on her, seeing the way the man moved.

No movement was wasted. One moment he would be as still as a statue and the next, in a literal blink of an eye, he appeared closer.

And with every step, every inch, his wide mouth contorted into a demented, aberrant smile, his revolting teeth glowing in the candlelight.

The face of a madman.

Even in her pained daze, Genny had an inkling of what this specter of a man intended do.

It had only registered now that he removed the lower half of his clothes.

He had already latched his cold, skeleton-like fingers on her wrist, pinning them against the stone floor she knelt on.

He was on top of her, and though he looked as if a breeze would carry him away, the strength behind his grip was unfathomable. Genny slowly lost feeling in her left hand.

With one hand grabbing her own, the ghoul had his way on her garments with his free hand, tearing away at her last bastion.

Genny tore her face away from the monster that had mounted her and, whilst doing so, mouthed a silent prayer, to any god that would listen to her cry.

And her yearning for forgiveness.

* * *

The scar that had been torn her face was burning. It always was, even more so when her mind was consumed with thought. It now roared at her, its once dull pain rising to the point where she wanted to drive daggers into her own skull to make the incessant burning stop.

Ever since that cursed swordsman Azul gave it to her, it was as if a fiery demon resided within the scarred remnants of her flesh, stabbing and prodding at her for everything she did.

When Roland commented how much it gave her character, she could only scoff at his remark.

Roslyn fixed her hood, doing the best she could to keep her long hair from escaping the clamp she had put it in. Still, she let some strands loose to cover the scar on her face. She had some dignity to preserve after all.

These last seasons were a terrible wound on her pride.

She fought tooth and nail to clear the blemish on her family name, the very blemish that the bastard Azul had stained her family with. Her father was now was much too ill to fight for their family name and, as the only remaining child of her line, the task fell to her to fulfill absolution.

She would never forgive the Masquerade for what they had done to her family but most of all she could hardly forgive herself for her own inequities.

The scar on her face reminded her everyday of her failures.

Time and time again, her target escaped her grasp. She herself was no pushover on the hunt, the members of her house could attest to her skill and prowess as a hunter. It was luck alone that kept Azul alive and away from her clutches.

But luck shone anew this time around. Roland was proof of that.

He was the master-at-arms of her house and the one who taught her how to wield a bow and handle a shortsword. It was truly by the Silent Goddess' grace that Roslyn was able to see him again ever since she had left home on her quest for her vengeance and her family's redemption. Familiar faces were far and few in between, especially ones she wanted to see.

"Used to it yet?" A familiar gruff voice called out to her.

Roslyn turned around to see her teacher standing in the doorway.

"Used to what?" She asked, straightening out her clothes as she made her way to the door.

Roland shook his head. "No, lass." He chuckled. "I mean this life. The life of a sellsword."

The word made her insides churn. It reminded her of a certain, smug mercenary that had bested her at every twist and turn. Swallowing her shame, she grumbled a tempered, "No."

The man roared with laughter, the creases by his eyes showing his age. Roland seemed to have aged nearly twofold since Roslyn left, the man now a far cry from the noble knight she remembered from her memories.

His well-kempt appearance was now haggard and disheveled, his hair having grown past his shoulders and the remains of an unclean shave littering his chiseled face.

Roland rested his hand atop the girl's head, ruffling the hair she worked so hard to keep clean. "The life of a wandering sword isn't an easy life, Ros. Few can stomach the storm this sort of life brings ashore."

Roslyn knew the feeling all too well.

The two walked out of the room, towards the center of their encampment. Several of Roland's men gruffly greeted the two as they passed, a hollow reception unlike the one she saw in the Masquerade's camp.

As they walked through the camp, Roslyn saw a great majority of the mercenaries, none of whom she could recognize were from her household, wore clothing that befitted thieves and pickpockets, with little to no armor protecting their vitals; some went entirely shirtless with warpaint as their only means of protection.

"Do your men know anything about proper battle attire?"

Roland laughed heartily, "They already have a hard time with basic etiquette, do you think they'd even bother with dress code?"

Roslyn kept any further comments to herself. If Roland, their leader, was not doing anything about it, then neither should she. She wasn't this lot's leader. Instead, she let her eyes go back to wandering, this time with her mouth shut.

Black.

It was nighttime but they stood out regardless.

Their armor glistened in the fire's light, the sheen that reflected off the rigids remarking how well-crafted, and expensive, the man inside of it was. The ebon-plated cuirass was worn over a similarly dark gambeson. Their armor bore no insignia.

Roslyn could count no more than ten of the armored soldiers in the camp, a sight that felt completely out of place given how rundown everything else appeared.

"Don't worry about them." Roland assured her, after having traced her concerned gaze. "They're the insurance policy we received for our contract."

Roland did mention earlier that he was currently in town because he was on the job. In fact, that was how the two encountered one another, which led to Roslyn helping out a bit before reuniting with her old friend. He had her "encounter" several people before returning to the designated area Roland had written for her on the back of the sorry excuse of a map she still carried around.

Cartography was never her strong suit, the crude map being testament to her lack of skill. But she still carried the old thing around with her as a memento of home.

It was what she and her friends drew together in their youth, with Roland's assistance. Their signatures now long since faded away as did most of the map.

"Insurance policy?" Roslyn questioned. She had worked several odd jobs herself, being a wandering sword for hire and all, but had never heard of a client enforcing such a decision on a contract. "Insurance for what?"

"To make sure that no one gets in our way during the job." Roland chuckled. Roslyn saw it for a split second but she could see a dangerous glint in Roland's eyes flash by. "And to make sure we meet our end of the deal."

Folding her arms, Roslyn leaned against a decaying picket, one of many that dotted the encampment. This entire deal that Roland seemed to have taken reeked with suspicion. "Just what exactly have you gotten yourself into?"

Roland shook his head and smiled ruefully. "Can't disclose that kind of information with you I'm afraid." His eyes glanced side to side. He leaned close and whispered, "They have ears everywhere" before pulling away.

Before Roslyn could mouth "who" she caught a glimpse of one of the armored soldiers glaring her way. Their completely encasing helmets may have hid their eyes but she could feel their piercing gaze nonetheless. She would have to be careful too.

"Is this all of them?" She whispered, subtly cocking her heads towards the black sentries, who were all armed to the teeth, brandishing spears and shields matching in hue.

Roland only shook his head, aware of the keen eyes and ears honing in on their conversation.

"Come with me, Ros."

She was more than happy to oblige.

* * *

Roland led her to an aging flight of wooden stairs that nestled haphazardly against an old building. The building itself was along the border of the camp, just skirting the fringes of Hearth.

As Ros ran her hand along the pine railing that guarded the edges of the stairs, a great many splinters bristled against her open palm, forcing her to quickly abandon the idea.

"Wouldn't do that if I were you." Roland suggested, glancing over his shoulder. "People haven't set foot in this part of town for quite some time."

"I can see that." Roslyn grumbled, looking at all the fine wooden splinters that had embedded themselves into her hand. She grimaced as she began to silently pull each one out, small droplets of blood replacing where each splinter had once been.

The wooden planks of the stairs screamed ceaselessly under every step she and Roland took, indicative of how rundown their surroundings were as Roland had mentioned. As to why everything was in such decay, Roslyn could only guess.

After the cacophony that was the staircase, the two finally reached the top, a balcony that was in an equally shoddy condition as the flight of stairs they had just escaped from. The railing was entirely nonexistent, with the pegs that dotted the edge of the platform being the only proof that they had existed at all. Even though Roslyn had left the stairs, the balcony made her feel no less different. It really did feel unsafe up where she stood.

Roland took a step forward, coming dangerously close to the edge of the balcony. Roslyn did not bother following after him.

"Small, isn't it?"

Curious as to what Roland was referring to, Roslyn followed where his hand had motioned to. It didn't take much effort to find.

"There used to be a lot more of us." Roland testified, his solemn gaze resting on the remainder of his band of mercenaries. "But these are scarce times. And scarcer times are still yet to arrive."

Roslyn understood Roland's feelings well. The war between the Embla and Askr had left many in the crossfire. Those fortunate enough to live within the protectorate of each kingdom were spared from the brunt of the campaign but those were the far and few.

Her household was blessed by being loyal bannermen to the Emblian royalty but Roslyn knew that what her household had was but a privilege. She was aware of the countless other houses and villages, on both fronts of war, that were not so lucky.

"It had gotten bad enough, many cry out that these are the end times." Roslyn added, forgetting her previous fears of the balcony and stepping forward to stand by Roland's side. On her travels she had seen the destruction left in the war's wake. There would not be enough parchment in the world to put the suffering she saw on the survivors' faces into words. "And I wouldn't blame them."

"Aye." Roland agreed, nodding his head. "And there was no worse time to become a sellsword than these." A dry smirk cracked across his weathered face. "Perhaps this is the Silent Goddess's punishment. Divine retribution for all those who contribute to the suffering."

Roslyn was never a truly pious adherent to Silent Goddess but couldn't help but agree with Roland's words.

"I suppose we deserve all the punishment that comes our way, I'm afraid." Roland chuckled. "We've done terrible things to try and survive out here."

She turned to face Roland, her once paragon of knightly virtues. "This is about your current contract right now, isn't it?"

He returned her gaze, another one of his smiles on his face. "You were always a perceptive one."

"Are you still not going to tell me what it's about?"

"No, lass."

An incomprehensible fury ran through her veins. Roslyn gripped Roland, who was much taller than her, by the hem of his collar and shook him about, teetering dangerously closer to the edge now. "Why?! Why Roland? Do you not trust me?"

Even now, she did not know what fueled her so. Perhaps it was the idea of having the image of one's hero being tarnished that she could not withstand. The Roland she knew from her memories was the paragon of righteousness and just, nothing like the haggard sellsword that stood before her.

He still offered no reply other than his apologies.

"Then at least tell me why you are here." Roslyn compromised, holding onto Roland as if her life depended on it. "You are a sworn knight of my house. That is a contract that binds you till the day you die. Tell me why you have left the house. Why you are doing this."

He nodded calmly. "The house has all fallen ill."

Roslyn felt her grip loosen. "What?"

"The illness that has robbed your father of his freedom has spread to nearly everyone in your house." Roland revealed, almost as if he were reciting. Then, the calm on his face was replaced by an uncharacteristic sorrow. "Your father has not much—"

"Stop." Roslyn begged, her voice a whisper. "Just… tell me why you are here."

Roland nodded. "I was among the lucky few that did not contract the illness. As such, we were set off to find a cure to what has befallen our house."

Roslyn felt that she needed to ask another question, as to why Roland was still out here as a sellsword, but that was self-explanatory. She decided to phrase it differently.

"So why are you still risking everything for a cure that might not exist?"

An adamance flashed in Roland's eyes. "It does."

"Then wh—"

"My daughter is among the sick, Roslyn."

She could offer no retort.

"This job promised that it would deliver the cure once it is done." Roland announced, his voice stern but calm. "And I… I will not let my daughter join her mother so soon. I must see it through."

"But why won't you tell me what it is you are doing?!"

Roland's hand reached to her own, still gripping Roland's collar. She thought he was going to forcefully pry off her fingers but they gently caressed hers. The warmth she felt from them had not changed after all these years.

A look of sorrow that Roslyn had never seen rested in Roland's grey eyes.

"You will never forgive me if I did, Roslyn."

They were the same eyes her father looked upon her with when she ran away from home.

"You have your reasons for leaving home, Ros." Roland uttered, gently removing her hands from by his neck. "And just as you still stay out here, chasing whatever it is that you are, so do I."

Roslyn's hands fell lifelessly by her side.

"Perhaps I lost a part of myself along that way." Roland whispered, barely audible. "Just… make sure you do not."

"But my family's honor—"

"Your father thinks shite for lost honor. You and I both know that what you are doing now is no longer about honor." Roland scolded, behind gritted teeth. "All he wants is his daughter back home, by his side before he can no longer…"

He paused.

"All he wants is to see you one last time Ros."

She couldn't find an answer.

Roland slowly backed away from the edge of the balcony. "I'm going to retire for the night. Don't dawdle up here for too long." And began his trek down the stairs.

Roslyn looked upon the dwindling numbers of Roland's crew, upon the faces of those who remained. Their faces caked with nothing but animosity and savagery at the world. Nothing remained to tell who they were before they went down the paths they did but their faces were all filled the exact same thing: loss. Roland's own face, one filled so much determination yet sorrow, was etched into her mind. And she wondered if somewhere along the way, she had decided to discard who she was as well.

* * *

 **END**


	21. Chapter 20: A Helping Hand

**(A/N): Hello everyone. I was gone for quite a while. Sorry about that. Here's the next chapter. And I promise the next one isn't going to take as long as this one did.**

 **Please enjoy.**

* * *

Jeorge felt his jaw nearly hit the floor. "You can't seriously consider going through with her plan, milord."

But the prince would not budge. "We are in dire straits, Jeorge. The people of Hearth need our help more than ever."

"But to hire a mercenary company—"

Alfonse held up his hand, marking an end to the conversation. Jeorge knew better than to argue further once the prince made up his mind on the field. It would take nothing less than King Domeric's words to change it. And the king was long since dead.

"I understand your concern, Jeorge, and I truly do appreciate your counsel." Alfonse explained. "But do we have any other alternatives right now? Can you say with full confidence that we can repel this threat on our own without any casualties?"

Jeorge knew he could not guarantee that. The nearest military settlement had its force relocated towards the vanguard that marched to Tellius. The Order still had no idea that they were even here to begin with. Getting reinforcements from them would be near, if not entirely, impossible. Getting aid from the mercenary Relia, as Alfonse had agreed to, would be their best, and perhaps only, option.

"I am to be king someday." Alfonse said, his gaze weighing heavily upon the town that lay beneath them. "I do not want to be remembered as a king who stood by and did nothing as his people suffered right under his nose. My father wouldn't have wanted that either."

Jeorge nodded, a tinge of reluctance still hanging over him. "As you wish, milord. I am here to serve."

"Thank you, Jeorge," Alfonse smiled, placing his hand on the archer's shoulder. "I know I can be stubborn at times."

Being an advisor to the crown prince was, indeed, an arduous job.

* * *

"Just know that if you plan on double-crossing us, I won't hesitate." Jeorge had warned her.

"What, you afraid of some little girl?"

He narrowed his eyes. "I know danger when I see it. And you reek of it."

"Rude. I'll have you know I take baths every day, thank you very much."

He scoffed and went about.

Their earlier dispute still rang in her ears.

What he wouldn't hesitate with, Relia didn't ask, but she wouldn't need to. She could only smile dryly. She didn't doubt that the Order wouldn't take kindly to treason, especially with how delicate things had been for Askr, if her informants had been true. And a lone mercenary like herself in a town prowling with mysterious guards would not help her case. Still, she managed to devise a sound enough plan for Prince Alfonse to hire her.

They would need to get out of Hearth and regroup with the remaining members of the Masquerade. Relia did also ask Alfonse if he could call for reinforcements from the Order but he shook his head. The Order was currently undertaking a campaign on the Tellius front against Embla. She was curious, but didn't pry further. There were more concerning matters to attend to besides the political climate of the two empires.

Relia carefully peeked from the edge of the emptied tent. She couldn't keep watch for long. The clanking of armor was more than enough persuasion. Just as quietly as she entered, Relia tiptoed out of the abandoned stall, avoiding all the foodstuffs and trinkets that lay scattered along the stone tiles.

"How's this end?" Jeorge, the golden-haired archer, asked as Relia returned from her brief scouting mission. "The right side is completely sealed off with guards."

Relia shook her head. "Too much activity. There are more guards on patrol than I expected."

Jeorge clicked his tongue in frustration. "Damn. That's another path blocked."

"It's only going to get worse from here on out," Relia reasoned. "You're going to need someone to watch your back if you want to make it out of this."

Jeorge glared at her, his grip visibly tightening on his bow. "So, what? You want me to arm you so that you can stab me when I have my back turned to you?"

If silence wasn't so golden, Relia would have given the blonde archer a piece of her mind at the questioning of her loyalty and service to a client, who in this case was Prince Alfonse. In her entire career as a mercenary, she had built a life and reputation as a mercenary who kept her word in all of her contracts. She wasn't about to break it in what was probably the second biggest job of her career.

But protesting would only give their position away to the guards, something that would give Jeorge further reason to plant an arrow between her eyes. Although she was no longer bound like she was with the Scourge and could move about freely, she dared not challenge Jeorge and his bow. Jeorge wasn't the only one who could see potential danger in a person; Relia was just as perceptive. And Jeorge wouldn't have the slightest amount of trouble in putting her down if she resisted by any means.

Lady Luna had taught her to pick her battles. This was not one of them.

Swallowing her pride, and admonishment for lacking a weapon, Relia obliged Jeorge's refusal. He still looked at her coldly, his hawk-like eyes on the hunt for any hint of suspicion. While being on the receiving end of such treatment was deplorable, Relia knew she would have acted similarly had their roles been switched.

Trust was earned, not simply given, Relia knew that better than anyone in her trade.

"Still, I am curious as to why you think arming you would be the best course of action." Jeorge said, his hand unmoving from his bow. "What exactly did you see?"

The black-armored guards increased in number as the further they went towards the south of town, she explained, making it harder for the group to be able to get around unnoticed. Jeorge had predicted earlier that the guards had set up their base of operations there, which would explain the increasing frantic activity of the mercenaries.

However, these guards were not of the usual cut of brigands Relia was accustomed to thwarting.

Their rank and formation on the patrols spoke of proper training and discipline, something outlaws tended to lack in droves. Their equipment also wasn't the usual secondhand goods that ponged of theft but showed proper maintenance.

It was an entire private army.

Relia recalled the armored knights that followed the hooded man who dealt with the trafficker from before. These armored guards bore a striking similarity to them.

Fighting them outright would not be an option, even if they did have the Scourge and the Askrian prince with them. They would be able to overpower the guards eventually but the risk of collateral damage was too great. The Heroes may fight to protect the innocent but these guards might not have such honor. And Inigo would give her hell for endangering innocents.

That is, if she survived this.

"Do we have other alternate routes?" Jeorge implored. His tone was calm but Relia could feel the growing anxiety that weighed on them both as the patrols of the guards grew even tighter.

Relia thought quietly for a moment. Inigo had mentioned of an abandoned sewer system that ran beneath Hearth many moons before. She, though, had never found such an entrance in the many times she had visited Hearth, and she certainly did not have the luxury to go looking for one now.

 _But what other choice do we have right now?_ Relia thought to herself. Her action, or inaction, could cost people their lives. She just needed to figure out which course of it would cost the least.

"Milord, were you able to find anything?"

Jeorge's sudden greeting pulled Relia from her spiraling thoughts. The prince had returned with Fir from their own scouting mission. Judging by Alfonse's furrowed brows, Relia knew that they too had no such luck in finding the opening they were all so desperately looking for.

"Every exit to our north is teeming with guards." Alfonse muttered. "Seems our enemies have reinforced the weaknesses in their patrols before we were able to exploit them. Has Lord Ephraim returned?"

Jeorge could only shake his head. "Nay, he hasn't. For us, there is no way to fall back nor is there any way to advance. The guards are closing in all the gaps in on us as we speak." He paused. A grim look spread across his face. "It is only a matter of time before they find us here."

"Who are these soldiers, anyway?" Fir asked, her eyes glancing around nervously. "Do you know of any mercenary companies like this, Relia?"

She shook her head. "Not the slightest idea. And I know the ten biggest contractors in the area… None of them operate on a scale like this."

Attention shifted to Prince Alfonse to see if he knew anything about these guards but they were met with another wall of no answers.

Still, it had everyone thinking the same thing: "Just who were these people?"

Relia was sure that they were affiliated with the traffickers she had seen before but sizeable private armies like these aren't an easy secret to keep from the world, much less so if the ones who were utilizing their services were contemptible slavers, who were more often than not completely incompetent.

If that was the case, then the slavers themselves did not hire these men. Relia thought back to the conversation of the slaver and the hooded man.

 _They were trying to negotiate over a business transaction,_ she recalled. _The hooded man demanded, "Five more…," but of what exactly?_

But those thoughts would have to wait. They needed to get out of the alley soon if they did want to catch sight of the patrols. She turned to Alfonse.

"Have you heard of an underground sewer system that runs beneath Hearth, your lordship?" she asked.

The prince, visibly taken aback, gave her a wary look.

"How do you know about that?" His voice was low, cautious, as if he didn't want the very winds to pick up his words and scatter them about. Whatever she had just said, Relia felt that she shouldn't have but she had no other choice.

Feeling that it was best to answer truthfully, Relia answered, "My liege—I mean our commander—told me of its existence, but not much else." She paused briefly, trying to gauge what response the prince would have. His eyes were indeed narrower, wary at the protected knowledge she somehow got to possess but the Askrian prince gave nothing else away.

"I heard that it may lead a way outside," She added, trying to alleviate the prince's concern, "but I still haven't come across such a thing."

Alfonse closed his eyes, exhaling sharply in response.

"You were never supposed to find it." He uttered, after a tense pause. "It is a secret only the royal family and guard know."

That only raised more questions for Relia, but one thing was certain:

Speaking of the underground sewer way was treading on thin ice.

"Still," Alfonse resumed, his tone much lighter, "I do think our lives are of more importance than some royal-blooded secret." He gave her a reassuring smile. "Let's go find ourselves a sewer."

Relia's eyes lit up. They had found the breakthrough they all needed at last. All they would need to do know was—

"Don't move."

 _Shit._

Everyone froze in place. Relia saw Jeorge cursing under his breath. Too consumed with thought of a way out, they had become careless of the encroaching guards. They were now at the mercy of the helmeted voice that barked from the alleyway behind them, accompanied by the distinct, piercing ring of a sword leaving its scabbard.

"I was wonderin' where the other division had disappeared to but would you look at this," the guard announced, his voice laden with malice. "We've got ourselves quite a catch!"

"That bastard Roland will finally stop complainin', now." The guard's partner announced.

Relia could feel the armor-laden footsteps get closer, and by counting its intervals, she made out two pairs coming towards them. They might be able to overpower two guards but the ensuing commotion would have a whole brigade falling onto them. That would spell disaster.

The steps stopped barely a meter from their huddled backs.

"Nobles an' wenches," the ear-grating voice cackled, "must be me lucky day."

Relia felt the pommel of the guard's sword prod her back.

"Kneel." He ordered. "Hands out on the ground. An' I don' want to hear a peep outta ye." They were in not position to argue otherwise.

Relia's heart raced. She needed to find a way out. It would only be a matter of a few minutes until the guards took them away or brought reinforcements. She cursed that she still did not have a weapon on hand.

Out of the corner of her eye, Relia saw Fir shake uncontrollably, a subdued a whimper leaking from her lips. The guard was running his bare hands through her lavender hair, his knuckles kneading against Fir's exposed neck. Every perverse, vile breath he let out along her back was met with the small tears that began to drip from Fir's eyes, her whimpers ever increasing.

"Don't worry lassie, just gotta make sure the product is nice and… fresh."

The other guard chuckled devilishly. "Go easy this time, will ya? The poor wretch from last time can't walk no more."

"We'll jes haf ta sell that bar wench to a low'r market then. People'll buy. They always do."

Relia nearly got up and rushed the guard but was held down by an iron grip. Alfonse held her arm tighter than any vise could.

"Don't." He managed to mutter.

She was exasperated. "What the hell do you mean?!" She whispered furiously. She then followed the prince's eyes and found her answer.

A slender, yet savage-looking knife hovered mere inches away from Fir's tear-caked face.

Any misstep, and the guards would not hesitate in using it.

"Well," the trafficker holding Fir said, removing his helmet, letting it dangle off his neck. "Aren't you a pretty 'un?" His horribly scarred face drew ever so closer to Fir's own. Bloodshot eyes ran all around her body, like a wild beast examining its prey. "Maybe I should—"

"That's enough."

The two guards turned their eyes away from their catch and looked downward from where the defiant voice was coming from. Relia had noticed that Alfonse was no longer sitting down next to her, but standing up, his swordhand at the ready.

"If you value your lives," Alfonse demanded, "Unhand Fir. Now."

The guards burst into laughter in response. The one who had his sword drawn waved it nonchalantly in front of Alfonse's face.

"I think yer confused with somethin' here, lad," the guard barked, smirking, "Yer in no place to be givin' me orders. Not unless you want yer pretty little friend here to lose her eyes. Ain't that right?" He turned to face his hostage-holding companion, who sneered in agreement.

"Now why don't ye sit down before someone gets hurt?"

Alfonse glared him down, unmoving. "Then your lives are forfeit."

And before the guard could hurl another insult, a clanging thud resonated in the tight hallway. It had come from helmet the guard's companion happened to drop from his neck, its clasp buried by the dirt below, the dome covered in its usual dark spots. Sighing with the relief, the guard reached down and retrieved the helmet to hand back, only then to realize something was horribly amiss.

His partner had left the fastened helmet to dangle from his neck, its underside clasp left intact. And upon looking closer at the splotches that dotted the helmet had started to flow down towards his hands, their color a dark crimson, one he was intimate with.

He turned to his partner, only to see that he was no longer holding their prisoner and standing where he once was. The man was collapsed down on his knees, his arms sprawled wildly at his side, a pool of blood beginning to surround him. His head was gone.

Without another thought, the guard lashed forward with his sword. Although the man's attention was on Prince Alfonse, the sword strike headed towards Relia. Immediately, she felt two hands grab and push her out of the way of the blow. She felt the force of the blow connect, blood splattering against her face but she was unharmed.

Squinting past the blood that got in her eyes, Relia shot her leg forward, catching the unwary foot of the guard, toppling him to the ground. He fell with an undignified crash, several pieces of armor clattering onto the floor, loose and in a heap.

But before she could do anything else, a sea-green blur whisked past her and set atop the fallen man. She had no doubt in her mind who it was. He was caked completely in what could only have been blood. With a spine-shattering stomp, the Scourge pounded his boot on the guard's back.

"Some timing, you have." She spat. Relia had much more to say but preferred letting the Scourge continue with his work.

Fittingly, he said nothing in return, only driving his heel further into the guard.

The guard desperately gasped through his blood-choked cries and clawed at the dirt beneath him, trying with all his might to move. His legs were as still as a statue's.

Relia rose to her knees. She hadn't forgotten that someone pushed her out of harm's way. she still felt the hand of whoever had pushed her. In fact, it was still attached to her.

Her savior's hand dangled from her shoulder, spewing the last remnants of its blood all over her.

Out of shock, she nearly threw the thing to the ground, only to stop when she saw its owner. Across from her, Relia saw a pale Jeorge, gripping his wrist as it was bound with a torn piece of his cloak, dripping with blood.

She rushed to his side. Swatting away his hand, Relia took over the make-shift tourniquet Jeorge was trying to feebly fasten with one hand. She could hear a low moan of pain from him as he winced when she applied heavy pressure on the still bleeding wound.

"Why the hell would you do such a thing?" she finally said, almost as if she were scolding the archer.

Jeorge closed his eyes tightly and gritted his teeth. "It—shit—has always been my job to protect people… haah… I don't plan on going back on that—"

"Thank you." She stated abruptly, still tending to his wound. "For saving me."

"Don't… think anything of it." He responded. "I wouldn't have gotten this far if I only wanted save my own skin"

"Might want to reconsider your career choices, then." She stressed, "You're going not going to have enough body parts to give up."

Jeorge, despite his pain-ridden face, chuckled to himself. "Must you joke about everything?"

Relia forced a smile. "My commander's habits must be rubbing off on me."

Replacing Jeorge's rag with a cleaner strip of cloth, Relia tightly wound it around his wrist, maintaining pressure, and doing her best to slow the bleeding.

"It isn't much," she announced, tucking the last fold of the tourniquet around his wound. "It's going to keep most of your blood inside of you now but you're going to need actual medical attention as soon as possible."

"I'll… I'll," he grimaced, his face chalked pale, "I'll get over this. Go tend to the others."

She looked at him, unsure.

"Please."

She nodded, getting up quietly. She turned to leave when Jeorge grabbed wrist. Relia could feel how weak the grip was behind his fingers.

"Thank you, Relia." Jeorge managed to say. His eyes no longer bore any semblance of resentment or suspicion towards her. He loosened his grip and let her walk away.

The small smile she wore was anything but forced now.

* * *

 **End.**

 **(A/N): The next chapter will be out within the next two weeks. Stayed tuned.**


	22. Chapter 21: Lost Ties

**(A/N): Hello. Sorry for being late with this chapter. I was upset with how its progression and decided to scrap it and rewrite it. But here it is. Please enjoy!**

* * *

"Gotcha." A familiar voice assured her, firm arms wrapping around her slumped, bruised shoulders. Turning her head unsteadily, Marth was greeted with Azul's ragged face, covered in sweat, his breathing heavy. "I finally caught up you. You had me worried."

Immediately, an overpowering guilt overrode all of Marth's exhaustion. She had no idea how long she been running for. Before Azul's voice, the pelting of Marth's footsteps against the empty cobblestone road was the only thing that broke the suffocating silence of the night that ate away at her. Where her legs had carried her, she cared for not. She only wanted to get away. Her legs screamed in pain at her to stop but she did not hear anything else but those words:

" _The Order of Heroes killed her."_

The sudden revelation of betrayal and confusion was what made her run away in the first place.

"Can you stand?"

She nodded. And just as she opened her mouth to apologize, Azul put his slim, finger across her cold lips.

"Save it." He whispered, his voice, firm, but gentle. "All that matters is you're okay."

Azul steadily helped Marth up. With his support, she was able to return to her feet. His thin frame belied the strength he possessed, even in the face of his own exhaustion.

Why was he so intent on helping her?

The two had only just met yet he treated Marth like an old friend, chasing after her in her endless run across Hearth as she nearly succumbed to her delirium. Marth couldn't bear the thought of returning to the Order's camp after learning what she had. So she ran, and continued running, her mind fevered with singes of painful memories that flashed over and over again.

The flames that consumed her amid the scorched fields. The cries of her companions as the fires licked away at her bones. The sacred blade Falchion plunged deep within her chest.

It wasn't long until her frenzied strength wore off and she painfully tumbled unto the stone road below her bruised feet. She did not know how long she remained laying on the cold ground but what she did feel for certain was a haunting voice that called to her from the depths of her heart, a stupor setting upon her. Like a flood of black water, it threatened to consume her consciousness wholly. And in that moment, she almost surrendered herself to its embrace, submerging her mind slowly into the drift that awaited her.

She wanted this nightmare to end.

And by closing her eyes, Marth felt like she could do so.

Free to drift away into nothingness, that was all she wanted. Just to have a chance to forget all that had happened…

"Here," Azul offered, lowering his shoulder. "You can lean on me… or would you prefer I carry you?"

But then Azul appeared, pulling her away from the murky depths of her consciousness. Marth did not want to bear the thought of what would have happened if he hadn't woken her at that very moment.

The depths of misery are near impossible to resurface from once having sunk below its waters. Marth was familiar with its clutches all too intimately.

Lord Ephraim had been mostly responsible for beating the self-pity out of her, literally. He constantly reminded her that her self-destructive wallowing was a waste of time.

" _If you have time to cry, you have to time to swing your sword."_

Even now, his face flashed across her mind. He would have damn near killed her if he saw the pitiful state she regressed into today. Marth had thought Lord Ephraim's harsh disciplining had snuffed the habit out of her, had made her stronger.

How wrong she still was.

Despite Azul's insistence, Marth still had some semblance of pride left and doggedly chose on walking without Azul's assistance. But the unsteadiness in her legs persuaded her otherwise. She was growing increasingly dependent on the people around her these days. It sickened her.

She gratefully took Azul's offer, wrapping one arm around Azul's shoulders. They were broader than she had thought.

"Th-thank you… and sorry." She whispered finally, glancing awkwardly at Azul's face as her feet trudged on, side by side with Azul's own. "That wasn't… I wasn't me."

It was a poor excuse that did little to explain the turmoil that whirled around inside her. But what else could she do? She did not want to throw any more burdens atop Azul's shoulders. No stranger should have to share the weight she carried. Tossing her problems upon others was all she had done since she arrived in Askr, handing them around just as easily as the air she breathed out.

Still, Azul shook his head, giving her a kind smile, finding no fault in her careless tirade. "It's my job to help people." He stated simply. "It's what I do."

Even though Azul was a stranger, inexplicably familiar warmth filled her heart. As they walked quietly down the empty streets of Hearth, those feelings continuously tugged at her memories. Had she, Lucina, known Azul? She had to have, intimately, otherwise Azul wouldn't have broken down as he had earlier. He even called her Lucy.

Lucina clearly meant a lot to this man, the way he cared for now was the gods' proof of that. But when she recalled the way he spoke about witnessing her death, Marth noticed a wall between Azul and Lucina, speaking as if he were peering through a looking glass and not actually there. If Lucina really did indeed mean a lot to him, why was Azul sounding so powerless at the time of her death? As if he were reciting something from the lines of history?

 _Just who is Azul?_ Marth silently asked herself. She hadn't found a moment of respite for her mind since running into him that she didn't even think of the most fundamental question when meeting someone new. Marth wondered if it would be too late to ask now. But as luck would have it, Azul continued speaking.

"This… takes me back." He muttered, a lonely air hanging between them. "I thought I would never get the chance to see you again… but here you are, Lucina. Prophecies be damned."

Marth stopped in her tracks, her arm falling to her side. What Azul had said did not register in her mind.

Azul had noticed that she was no longer by his side. Immediately, concern raced across his face as he rushed to her and asked, "What's wrong?" His worry only further drove the stakes of guilt further into Marth's heart but she knew she had to clear a misunderstanding that would only end up hurting the man.

"Azul," she began, trying her best to keep her voice from shaking. "Please listen to what I have to say."

He held her shoulders, genuine worry and fear in his eyes, his hands firmly clinging to her small frame. "Is something the matter? Are you feeling unwell?"

Yes, something was unwell within her. She should have already told Azul. The familiarity of Azul's hands only worsened the pain in heart.

All this time with him, she was consumed with was when she was called by her real name. Every time Azul called her Lucina, she would always feel a deep chill run down her spine. Although it was the one concrete memory she held, it always felt… wrong. Although never directed at her, Marth had heard her true name being thrown around a handful of times in her time in Askr, and they were always filled with heraldries of her heroism and bravery. And while she too was the princess the people spoke of, that praise wasn't for Marth. It was for Lucina. Marth was but a shell of the true princess that came before her, a barren husk of a hero undeserving of the people's reverence. The mask and name she still clung to was testament to that.

She wasn't allowed to be her. Even the goddess had denied her that.

And Azul needed to know that she wasn't the Lucina he spoke of.

"I'm not the Lucina you know…" She admitted, "I was summoned by the Order several months ago. I'm just… another Hero of the Order."

She saw Azul's frame shiver, just as it had before when she asked him about her death, referring to herself as someone else. The warmth of Azul's face faded, his shoulders now rigid. Marth nearly regretted opening her mouth but she knew she had no other choice. A bone-piercing chill spread across her body and was almost enough to numb the pain that shot across her legs.

But no words came from the mercenary. Azul was as quiet as the night air. His eyes shut, not giving away a sliver of his thoughts. But judging by his reaction, it was almost as if he had been preparing Marth to say something of the sort. Could it be that he was deliberately calling her by her true name to hear what she had to say?

He opened his eyes.

"So I take it that you don't remember who I am?"

Marth shook her head. She tore through her memories to see if she could find anything, anything at all, about the man that stood before her but all she could recall was pain.

"I'm sorry, Azul. I can't remember anything."

He grew quiet, his eyes wandering the night sky, lost in thought. A heavy mood weighed over them both, drowning out the world around them.

"It was on a night just like this," Azul described, his hands reaching into his cloak, pulling out the mask he wore earlier, "when you disappeared." He held the weathered mask tightly in his hands, almost fearful that it might disappear from his grasp. "You remember this, right?"

As precious as it was to him, Azul handed the mask to her without hesitation. Of course she remembered what it was.

She still wore it on her face.

"It was the only thing you left behind," he explained, retrieving the mask back from her hands. "The princess of Ylisee was gone when we needed her most."

Her? Gone? Did she really desert her people as Azul had said? Marth could not believe it. She refused to. As conflicted as she may be with herself, there was no way she could have abandoned the people she was entrusted to protect. Even now, she strove to serve the realm she was fighting for.

So why couldn't she remember anything?

And why did Azul know so much?

"Who are you…?" Marth asked him finally, her voice quivering. Deep down, unknowingly, a part of her feared what he might say.

Azul smiled bitterly, masking his distraught heart. "The gods must really be out to punish me… My sister does not even recognize me."

The world came to a crashing halt.

Did she hear those words right?

 _Sister? Me?_

Then that would mean that Azul was her brother? But she did not remember. She could not remember. The name Azul itself rung no bells in her memories. And as much as she wanted to implore further, all of her words lodged themselves into her throat, only allowing a stifled gasp to pass through her lips.

"Azul, I—"

"Stop," he demanded, holding his hand out in front of her, crestfallen. "Please. Just… me be for a while." He slumped to his knees and onto the ground. He ran his hand over his pain-ridden face, brushing aside his gray hair that had fallen messily over it. All Marth could do was kneel next to him.

 _What else can I do?_ She thought to herself. She was at a loss when consoling her own broken self, even more so with other people. In her search for finding meaning in herself, she had turned a blind eye to the hearts of those around her. But seeing Azul as he was right now, her heart ached for the man. Not knowing why herself, she reached for Azul's hand, holding it tightly, hoping that whatever semblance of comfort she could give to him could reach his wounded heart.

He looked up at her with the same listlessness he had when they had met earlier. He seemed to acknowledge her comfort, as poor as it was, giving her a weak nod, peering into her eyes, dejected. And as she stared into his despondent eyes, bathed in light by the lone moon in night sky, Marth saw it.

It was unmistakable.

She had the very same mark in her own eye.

A sudden torrent of memories shot past Marth's eyes.

She could see a blue-haired youth kneeling before her, crying, a broken wooden sword resting in the dirt. Then, with an outstretched hand, she raised the boy back to his feet. She was no bigger than he was, perhaps only slightly taller. She wiped the tears off the boy's face, holding his hand all the way through.

Once the boy's sadness was no more, he held her hand tight, smiling radiantly, the gleam from his eyes, and the Brand, shining brighter than any sun or star, and the warmth of his hands enough to thaw the coldest of hearts.

The warmth she felt now was just as it was in her memories.

Yes, she could now say with absolute certainty in her heart.

A name that had lay lost and forgotten for so long began to resurface across her lips.

"Inigo?"

* * *

 **(A/N): The next update will be much sooner. Thanks for reading.**


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